THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


FROM  THE  BOOKS  OF 

WILLIAM  P.  JACOCKS,  M.D. 

CLASS  OF  1904 
FRIEND  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


CB 


THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 
WITH  O.  HENRY 


William  Sidney  Porter 
^o-  henry."  from  a  crayon  drawing  by  heitman 


THROUGH    THE    SHADOWS 

WITH 

O.    HENRY 


By  AL.  JENNINGS 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published   by   arrangement   with   The   H.   K.   Fly   Company 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


CoPTRiGHr,    1321,    BY 

The  H.  K.  Fly  Compamt 


MADE   IN    THE   U.    S.  A. 


TO  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  FREMONT  OLDER 

EDITOR  "SAN  FRANCISCO  CALL'* 

In  giving  this  volume  to  the  public  I  am  indebted 
to  you,  without  whose  aid  and  encouragement  the 
book  would  never  have  been  written.  To  you  again 
are  due  my  thanks  for  furnishing  the  valued  assistance 
of  Elenore  Meherin  who  greatly  aided  in  the  prep- 
aration of  the  manuscript. 

Devotedly  yours, 

Al  Jennings. 


^ 


CONTEXTS 


CHAPTER  I  PAGE 

A  mothers  flight;  birth  in  a  snowdrift;  the  drunken 
father's  blow;  the  runaway  boy;  the  fight  in  the 
shambles;  abandoned  on  the  prairie II 

CHAPTER  II 

Failure  as  a  bootblack;  a  friendly  foreman;  the  only  kid 
on  the  range;  flogged  at  the  wagon-tongue;  slaying 
of  the  foreman;  vengeance  on  the  assassin     .,     .,     .     17i 

CHAPTER  III 

Chuck-buyer  for  the  Lazy  Z ;  last  journey  to  Las  Cruces ; 
shooting  up  a  saloon ;  in  the  calaboose ;  arrival  of  the 
father .22 

CHAPTER  IV 

Release  from  jail;  quiet  years  in  Virginia;  study  of  law; 
a  new  migration  to  the  West ;  brawl  in  court ;  news  of 
death  in  the  night 26 

CHAPTER  V 

Shot  from  behind ;  agonies  of  remorse ;  death  scene  in  the 
saloon;  a  father's  rebuke  to  his  son;  vengeance  de- 
layed      . 31 

CHAPTER  VI 

In  the  outlaws'  country;  acquittal  of  the  assassins;  a 
brother's  rage;  false  accusation;  the  father's  denun- 
ciation; refuge  in  the  outlaws'  camp    .:..,..     38 

CHAPTER  VII 

Planning  a  holdup ;  terrors  of  a  novice ;  the  train-robbery ; 
a  bloodless  victory ;  division  of  the  spoils ;  new  threat 
of  peril ,     ...     45 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VIII  PAGE 

Hunting  the  enemy ;  the  convention  at  El  Reno ;  drama  in 
the  town-hall;  flight  of  the  conspirators;  pursuit  to 
Guthrie;  failure  of  the  quest;  "the  range  or  the  pen"     54 


CHAPTER  IX 

Frank  turns  outlaw;  the  stickup  of  the  Santa  Fe;  the 
threat  of  dynamite;  crudity  of  bloodshed;  the  lure  of 
easy  money 59 


CHAPTER  X 

In  the  Panhandle ;  a  starving  hostess ;  theft  and  chivalry ; 
$35,000  clear;  dawning  of  romance;  two  plucky  girls; 
the  escape  in  the  tramp 64 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  meeting  with  0.  Henry  in  Honduras ;  the  celebration 
of  the  Fourth;  quelling  a  revolution;  a  new  flight; 
the  girl  on  the  beach 71 


CHAPTER  XII 

Yoyaging  at  leisure;  the  grand  ball  in  Mexico  City; 
0.  Henry's  gallantry;  the  don's  rage;  0.  Henry  saved 
from  the  Spaniard's  knife 80 


CHAPTER  XIII 

In  California;  the  bank-robbery;  0.  Henry's  refusal;  pur- 
chase of  a  ranch ;  coming  of  the  marshals ;  flight  and 
pursuit;  the  trap;  capture  at  last 90 

CHAPTER  XIV 

In  the  Ohio  Penitentiary;  horrors  of  prison  life;  in  and 
out  of  Bankers'  Row;  a  visit  from  0.  Henry,  fellow- 
convict;  promise  of  help 100 

CHAPTER  XV 

Despair;  attempt  at  escape;  in  the  hell-hole;  torture  in 
the  prison ;  the  diamond  thief's  revenge ;  the  flogging ; 
hard  labor;  a  message  of  hope  from  0.  Henry      .      .   109 


CONTENTS  g 

CHAPTER  XVI  PAGE 

The  new  "main  finger,"  a  tuba  solo;  failure  at  prayer; 
transfer  to  the  post-office;  literary  ambition;  0. 
Henry  writes  a  story 116 

CHAPTER  XVII 

0.  Henry,  bohemian;  the  Recluse  Club  in  the  prison;  the 
vanishing  kitchen;  the  tragedy  of  Big  Joe;  effect  on 
0.  Henry ;  personality  of  a  genius 126 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Story  of  convict  Dick  Price;  grief  for  his  mother;  her 
visit  to  the  prison;  the  safe-opening;  promise  of 
pardon 135 

CHAPTER  XIX 

Interest  of  0.  Henry ;  Price  the  original  of  Jimmy  Valen- 
tine ;  the  pardon  denied ;  death  of  the  cracksman ;  the 
mother  at  the  prison  gate 150 

CHAPTER  XX 

The  Prison  Demon;  the  beast  exhibited;  magic  of  kind- 
ness; reclamation;  tragedy  of  Ira  Maralatt;  meeting 
of  father  and  daughter 159 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Methods  of  0.  Henry;  his  promotion;  the  singing  of 
Sally  Castleton;  0.  Henry's  indifference;  the  ex- 
planation       183 

CHAPTER  XXII 

Defiance  of  Foley  the  Goat ;  honesty  hounded ;  0.  Henry's 

scorn ;  disruption  of  the  Recluse  Club    ....      .206 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

0.  Henry's  rage  against  corruption;  zeal  yields  to  pru- 
dence; a  draft  of  the  grafter's  wine     .      .      .     .     .  224 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

Tainted  meat;  0.  Henry's  morbid  curiosity;  his  interview 
with  the  Kid  on  the  eve  of  execution ;  the  Kid's  story ; 
the  death  scene;  innocence  of  the  Kid     ....  232 


10  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXV  PAGE 

Last  days  of  0.  Henry  in  prison;  intimate  details;  his 

departure 250 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

O.  Henry's  silence;  a  letter  at  last;  the  proposed  story; 
Mark  Hanna  visits  the  prison;  pardon;  double- 
crossed;  freedom 256 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

Practice  of  law ;  invitation  from  0.  Henry ;  visit  to  Roose- 
velt; citizenship  rights  restored;  with  0.  Henry  in 
New  York;  the  writer  as  guide 269 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Episodes  of  city  nights;  feeding  the  hungry;  Mame  and 

Sue;  suicide  of  Sadie 280 

CHAPTER  XXIX 

Quest  for  material;  Pilsner  and  the  Halberdier;  sugges- 
tion of  a  story;  dining  with  editors;  tales  of  train- 
robberies;  a  mood  of  despair 290 

CHAPTER  XXX 

Supper  with  a  "star" ;  frank  criticism ;  0.  Henry's  prodi- 
gality; Sue's  return 299 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

After  two  years;  a  wedding  invitation;  another  visit  to 
New  York;  delayed  hospitality;  in  0.  Henry's  home; 
blackmail 308 

CHAPTER  XXXII 
New  Year's  Eve;  the  last  talk;  "a  missionary  after  all"    .  316 


THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 
WITH  O.  HENRY 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  mother's  flight;  birth  in  a  snowdrift;  the  drunken  father's  blow;  the 
runaway  boy;  the  fight  in  the  shambles;  abandoned  on  the  prairie. 

A  wilderness  of  snow — wind  tearing  like  a  ruffian 
through  the  white  silence — the  bleak  pines  setting  up 
a  sudden  roar — a  woman  and  four  children  hurrying 
through  the  waste. 

And  abruptly  the  woman  stumbling  exhausted 
against  a  httle  fence  corner,  and  the  four  children 
screaming  in  terror  at  the  strange  new  calamity  that 
had  overtaken  them. 

The  woman  was  my  mother — the  four  children,  the 
oldest  eight,  the  youngest  two,  were  my  brothers.  I 
was  born  in  that  fence  corner  in  the  snow  in  Tazwell 
County,  Virginia,  November  25,  1863.  My  brothers 
ran  wildly  through  the  Big  Basui  of  Burke's  Gardens, 
crying  for  help.  My  mother  lay  there  in  a  fainting 
collapse  from  her  five  days'  flight  from  the  Tennessee 
plantation. 

The  Union  soldiers  were  swooping  down  on  our 
plantation.  My  father,  John  Jennings,  was  a  colonel 
in  the  Confederate  army.  He  sent  a  courier  warning 
my  mother  to  leave  everything,  to  take  the  children 


12  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

and  to  cross  the  border  into  Virginia.  The  old  home 
would  be  fired  by  the  rebel  soldiers  to  prevent  occu- 
pation by  Union  troops. 

A  few  of  the  old  negroes  left  with  her.  They  were 
but  an  hour  on  the  road.  They  looked  back.  The 
plantation  was  in  flames.  At  the  sight  the  frightened 
darkies  fled.  My  mother  and  the  four  youngsters 
went  on.  Sixty  miles  they  tramped,  half  running, 
half  walking,  and  always  beset  with  alarms.  Frank 
was  so  little  he  had  to  be  carried.  Sometimes  they 
were  knee  deep  in  slush,  sometimes  they  were  slipping 
in  the  mud.  The  raw  wind  cut  to  the  bone.  It  was 
perhaps  as  terrible  and  as  bitter  a  journey  as  a  woman 
ever  took. 

I  was  born  in  a  snow  heap  and  reared  in  a  barn. 
They  picked  my  mother  up  and  carried  her  in  a 
rickety  old  cart  to  the  mountains.  Jack  and  Zeb,  the 
two  oldest,  had  sent  their  panicky  clamor  through  the 
waste.    A  woodsman  answered. 

The  loft  of  an  old  log-cabin  church  in  the  Blue  Ridge 
Mountains  was  our  home  in  those  hungry  years  of  the 
Civil  War.  We  had  nothing  but  poverty.  There  was 
never  enough  to  eat.  We  heard  no  word  from  my 
father.  Suddenly  in  1865  he  returned  and  we  moved 
to  Mariontown,  111. 

I  remember  our  home  there.  I  remember  our 
habitual  starvation.  We  lived  in  an  empty  tobacco 
barn.  There  was  hardly  a  stick  of  furniture  in  the 
place.  Frank  and  I  used  to  run  wild  about  the  bare 
rooms.  I  know  that  I  was  always  longing  for,  and 
dreaming  of,  good  things  to  eat. 

Before  the  war  my  father  was  a  physician.    A  little 


WITH  O.  HENRY  13 

sign  on  our  barn  tempted  a  few  patients  to  try  his  skill 
and  gradually  he  built  up  a  meager  practice.  All  at 
once,  it  seemed,  his  reputation  grew  and  he  became 
quite  a  figure  in  the  town.  He  had  never  studied  law, 
but  he  was  elected  district  attorney. 

It  was  as  though  a  fairy  charm  had  been  cast  over 
us.    And  then  my  mother  died.    It  broke  the  spell. 

There  was  something  grim  and  fighting  and  stub- 
born about  her.  In  all  the  misery  of  our  pinched  days 
I  never  heard  her  complain.  She  was  perhaps  too 
strong.  When  she  died  it  was  like  the  tearing  up  of 
a  prop.    The  home  went  to  pieces. 

Frank  and  I  were  the  youngest.  A  pair  of  stray 
dogs  we  were,  grubbing  about  in  alleys,  bunking  on  the 
top  floor  of  an  old  storehouse,  earning  our  living  by 
gathering  coal  off  the  sandbars  of  the  Ohio  river.  We 
sold  it  for  10  cents  a  bushel.  Sometimes  we  made  as 
much  as  15  cents  in  two  days.  Then  we  would  stuff 
om^selves  with  pies  and  doughnuts.  Usually  our 
dinner  was  an  uncertain  and  movable  feast.  Nobody 
troubled  about  us.  Nobody  told  us  what  to  do  or  what 
to  avoid.    We  were  our  own  law. 

We  were  little  savages  fighting  to  survive.  Noth- 
ing in  our  lives  made  us  aware  of  any  obUgations  to 
others.  It  was  hardly  an  ideal  environment  wherein 
to  raise  law-respecting  citizens. 

My  father  tried  to  keep  some  sort  of  a  home  for  us, 
but  he  was  often  away  for  weeks  at  a  time.  One  night 
Frank  met  me  at  the  river.  His  eyes  stuck  out  like  a 
cat's  in  the  dark.  He  gi^abbed  me  by  the  coat  and 
made  me  run  along  with  him.  He  stopped  suddenly 
and  pointed  to  a  gi^eat,  black  lump  huddled  against 
the  door  of  Shrieber's  store. 


14  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"That's  paw,"  he  said.    "He's  asleep  out  there.'* 

Shame  like  a  hot  wave  swept  over  me.  I  wanted  to 
get  him  away.  I  was  fond  of  liim  and  I  didn't  want 
the  people  in  the  town  to  know.  I  ran  up  and  caught 
him  by  the  shoulder.  "Paw,  get  up,  get  up,"  I 
whispered. 

He  sat  up,  his  face  stupid  with  sleep.  Then  he  saw 
me  and  struck  out  a  furious  blow  that  sent  me  reeling 
to  the  curb.  White  hot  with  anger  and  hurt  affection, 
I  got  up  and  ran  like  a  little  maniac  to  the  river. 

I  threw  myself  on  the  sandbar  and  beat  the  ground 
in  a  fury  of  resentment.  I  was  crushed  and  enraged. 
I  wanted  to  get  away,  to  strike  out  alone. 

I  knew  the  boats  like  a  river  rat.  They  were  load- 
ing freight.  I  crawled  in  among  the  boxes  of  the  old 
Fleetwood  and  I  got  to  Cincinnati  as  forlorn  and 
wretched  as  any  runaway  kid. 

But  I  was  a  little  cranky.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
be  a  musician.  I  could  play  the  trombone.  The 
Yolks  theatre,  a  cheap  beer  garden,  took  me  on.  I 
worked  like  a  slave  for  four  days.  Saturday  night  I 
went  around  to  the  manager  and  asked  for  my  pay. 
I  was  starved.  I  had  only  eaten  what  I  could  pick 
up.  For  four  days  I  had  haunted  the  saloon  limch 
counters.  I  used  to  sneak  in,  grab  a  sandwich,  duck, 
grab  another  and  get  kicked  out. 

"You  mangy  little  ragamuffin,"  the  manager  swore, 
with  more  oaths  than  I  had  ever  heard  before.  "Get 
out  of  here!" 

He  knocked  me  against  the  wall.  I  had  an  old  bull- 
dog pistol.    I  fired  at  him  and  ran. 

The  shot  went  w^ild.     I  saw  that,  but  I  saw,  too, 


WITH  O.  HENRY  15 

that  I  had  to  run.  I  didn't  stop  until  I  had  dimbed 
onto  a  blind  baggage  car  bound  for  St.  Louis.  Then 
I  crept  into  a  hog  car,  pulled  the  hay  over  me  and  slept 
until  I  was  dumped  off  at  the  stockyards  in  Kansas 
City. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  was  on  the  dodge.  It  is  an 
ugly  thing  for  a  boy  of  11  to  attempt  murder,  but  self- 
protection  was  the  only  law  I  knew.  Society  might 
shelter  other  youngsters.  I  had  had  to  fight  for  al- 
most every  crust  I  had  eaten.  I  was  forced  to  take 
the  law  in  my  own  hands  or  be  beaten  down  by  the 
gaunt  poverty  that  warped  my  early  Ufe. 

It  was  fight  that  won  me  a  brief  home  at  the  stock- 
yards. I  had  a  scrap  with  the  kid  terror  of  the  sham- 
bles. We  fought  to  a  finish.  Grown  men  stood  about 
and  shouted  with  laughter.  Blood  streamed  from  my 
nose  and  mouth.    The  fight  was  a  draw. 

The  terror's  father  came  over  and  shook  my  hand. 
I  went  home  with  them  and  stayed  for  a  month.  The 
kid  and  I  would  have  died  for  each  other  in  a  week. 
We  cleaned  out  every  other  youngster  in  the  yard. 
The  kid's  mother,  slovenly  and  intemperate  as  she 
was,  had  the  sunny  kindness  of  people  that  have  hun- 
gered and  suffered.    She  was  like  a  mother  to  me. 

On  an  old  schooner  wagon  we  started  across  the 
plains  together.  Near  the  little  town  of  La  Junta, 
came  the  catastrophe  that  wrecked  my  existence. 

Al  Brown  got  hold  of  some  whiskey.  We  stopped 
for  the  night  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie.  The  beans 
were  boiling  in  the  open.  He  walked  up  to  the  fire, 
looked  into  the  saucepan — "Beans,  again,"  he  snarled, 
and  kicked  the  dinner  to  the  ground.  Without  a  word 


16  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

his  wife  took  up  the  frying  pan  and  beat  him  over 
the  head.    He  went  out — cold. 

The  kid  and  I  had  to  run  out  to  the  edge  of  the 
prairie.    We  always  did  when  they  started  to  scrap. 

She  came  out,  hooked  up  the  team  and  began  dump- 
ing in  her  things  and  the  kid's. 

"Jolmny,  get  your  duds;  we're  going  to  leave,"  she 
said. 

I  never  felt  so  isolated  in  my  Hfe.  The  kid  didn't 
want  to  leave  me.  I  started  to  cry.  It  was  getting 
terribly  dark.  The  woman  came  back.  "Honey,  I 
can't  take  you,"  she  said. 

I  was  afraid  of  the  dark,  afraid  of  the  silence.  I 
caught  hold  of  her.  She  pushed  me  away,  climbed  up 
on  the  wagon  and  drove  off,  leaving  me  alone  on  the 
prairie  with  the  man  she  thought  she  had  murdered. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Failure  as  a  bootblack;   a  friendly  foreman;  the  only  kid  on  the  range; 

flogged  at  the  wagon-tongue;  slaying  of  the  foreman; 

vengeance  on  the  assassin. 

I  sat  there  until  the  night,  pulsing  and  hea\y, 
seemed  to  fold  in  on  me  like  a  blanket.  Then  I 
rolled  over  on  my  face  and  gi'oped  along  to  the 
embers  where  Al  Brown  lay.  I  wanted  company.  I 
crouched  down  at  his  side  and  lay  there.  I  was  almost 
asleep  when  a  queer  thumping  sent  a  shivering  terror 
through  me.  I  lay  still  and  hstened.  It  was  Al 
Brown's  heart  beating  against  my  ear. 

The  bells  and  whistles  of  all  New  York  thundering 
to  the  New  Year  sent  me  crazy  with  delight  the  first 
time  I  heard  them — ^the  prison  gate  clanging  to  on 
me  made  me  insolent  with  joy — but  never  was  there 
a  sound  so  good  to  hear  as  the  pumping  of  Al  Brown's 
heart. 

I  grabbed  his  hat  and  ran  to  the  big  buffalo  wal- 
low. Again  and  again  I  dashed  the  hatful  of  water 
in  his  face.  Finally  he  lolled  over  to  one  side  and 
struggled  to  his  knees.  "Which  way'd  she  go?"  He 
asked  quietly  enough,  but  I  was  suspicious.  I  pointed 
in  the  opposite  direction.  Al  rubbed  the  blood  from 
the  side  of  his  face.  "Let  her  go,"  he  said  amiably, 
and  went  stumbling  off  toward  the  creek.  I  followed 
him.    He  turned  about.    "Go  'long,  sonny,"  he  said. 

I  waited  till  he  took  a  few  paces  and  then  I  sneaked 


18  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

after  him.  If  Al  Brown  or  his  wife  had  stuck  by  me 
then  I  don't  believe  I'd  be  Al  Jennings,  the  outlaw, 
today.  It  made  him  angry  to  have  me  trailing  him. 
"See  here,  sonny,  you  go  'long — hustle  for  yourself!" 

It  was  a  mile  across  the  curly  mesquite  flats  to  the 
town  of  La  Junta.  My  heels  were  my  only  horses 
then,  but  the  bullets  of  a  sheriff's  posse  never  set  me 
sprinting  the  way  that  prairie  darkness  did.  I  reached 
the  town  just  in  time  to  catch  special  apartments 
where  the  hay  was  clean  and  soft  on  a  west-going 
train.  It  trundled  into  Trinidad,  Colo.,  at  3  a.  m., 
and  I  hung  around  the  depot  until  morning  casting 
about  for  a  business  opening. 

My  opportunity  came  with  a  Mexican  kid  of  my 
own  age.  He  carried  a  bootblack  kit.  I  had  a  quarter. 
We  swapped  and  I  set  out  with  my  brushes  ready  to 
clean  all  the  boots  in  the  State.  But  the  Mex  swin- 
dled me.  The  people  in  Trinidad  never  blacked  their 
shoes.  I  shouted  "Shine,  shine"  until  my  throat  ached 
and  my  stomach  hooted  with  neglect.  I  felt  like  a 
menial. 

At  last  I  collared  a  patron.  A  giant  in  a  white 
hat  with  a  string  hanging  down  in  front  and  another 
in  back,  a  gray  shirt,  and  sloppy,  check  trousers  that 
seemed  to  stick  by  a  miracle  to  his  hips,  slouched  my 
way. 

It  was  Jim  Stanton,  foreman  of  the  101  Ranch. 
He  had  the  longest  nose,  the  hardest  face  and  the 
warmest  heart  of  any  man  I  ever  knew.  Three  years 
later,  when  I  was  14,  Stanton  was  murdered.  I'd  hke 
to  have  died  that  day. 

My  prospective  patron  wore  boots  with  the  long, 


WITH  O.  HENRY  19 

narrow  heels,  sloping  toward  the  instep,  that  the  cow- 
boys of  that  time  wore.  I  wanted  a  closer  squint  at 
them. 

I  stood  in  his  way  and  asked  insultingly,  "Shine?" 

"Lo,  Sandy,  never  had  no  paste  on  them  yet; 
try  it." 

He  didn't  like  my  methods.  The  black  stuck  in 
mealy  spots. 

"Reckon  you  didn't  daub  it  right,  bub,"  he  said. 

"Go  to  hell,  damn  you,"  I  told  him. 

"Pow'ful  bad  temper,  sonny,"  he  di'awled.  "How'd 
you  like  to  be  a  cowboy?" 

It  was  kid  heaven  opened  to  me.  That  night  I 
took  my  first  long  ride.  Jim  Stanton  fitted  me  out 
from  head  to  foot.  I  had  never  sat  a  horse,  but  we 
went  60  miles  without  a  stop.  There  wasn't  a  kid 
on  the  range.  They  gave  me  a  man's  work  and  a 
man's  responsibilities.  They  made  me  the  wrangler, 
and  when  I  took  to  running  the  fifty  horses  over  the 
hills  they  used  cowboy  discipline  to  teach  me  that 
horses  should  be  walked  in.  They  strung  me  out 
across  the  wagon  tongue  and  beat  me  into  insensi- 
bihty. 

After  that  beating  I  was  an  outcast.  Nobody 
so  much  as  noticed  me.  I  longed  for  the  Prairie  Kid. 
I  would  have  run  away,  but  there  was  no  place  to  go. 
The  resentment  that  always  riled  me  when  the  law 
went  against  me  was  burning  my  heart  out.  I  hated 
them  all. 

I  was  sitting  down  by  the  corrals  one  day  when 
Stanton  came  along.  "Lo,  Sandy,  here's  a  new  bridle 
with  tassels  on  it.    Get  your  horse."    It  was  the  first 


20  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

thing  any  one  had  said  to  me  in  three  days  and  I  just 
busted  out  crying. 

I  was  Jim  Stanton's  man  Friday  after  that.  He 
came  to  trust  me  like  the  toughest  man  on  the  range. 
He  treated  me  like  a  pal.  Stanton  taught  me  cowboy 
law  and,  except  for  the  running  of  the  horses  in  my 
early  days,  I  never  violated  it.  I  was  square  as  any 
fellow  and  was  reckoned  a  valuable  hand,  though  I 
was  ten  years  younger  than  most  of  them. 

Then  came  the  tragedy  that  made  me  a  "wild  one." 
Some  steers  from  the  O-X  ranch  got  mixed  with  ours. 
There  was  a  dispute  over  the  brands.  Jim  won  his 
point,  and  the  O-X  peelers  left  without  any  particular 
ill-feeling. 

Jim  went  down  to  the  branding  pen  to  look  over 
the  steers.  I  was  standing  about  two  hundred  feet 
away  when  I  heard  a  shot  fired,  and  an  instant  later 
caught  sight  of  Pedro,  one  of  the  O-X  men,  galloping 
off  at  a  mad  speed. 

Villainy  had  been  done.  I  knew  it.  I  ran  down 
to  the  pens.  Jim  was  crouched  over  on  his  knees  with 
a  bullet  hole  in  his  back. 

It  was  as  though  everything  went  dead  within  me. 
It  was  the  first  real  grief  I  had  ever  known.  I  sat 
there  holding  Jim's  hand  when  I  should  have  been  out 
after  Pedro.  I  sat  there  mopping  his  blood  off  with  a 
bandana  when  I  should  have  been  yeUing  for  help. 
Jim  was  the  only  friend  I  had  ever  had — he  was  all 
but  God  to  me. 

To  shoot  a  man  from  behind  is  crime  in  the  cowboy 
code.  The  man  who  does  it  is  a  coward  and  a  mur- 
derer.    He  is  pursued  and  his  punishment  is  death. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  21 

Pedro  vanished  from  the  face  of  the  earth  for  a  f ew 
months.  We  gave  up  the  chase  for  him.  One  day 
Chicken,  a  kid  of  eighteen,  came  back  from  the  hills. 
He  had  been  watching  our  cattle  to  keep  the  steers 
from  following  a  trail  herd  going  north. 

*'Get  3^our  horse,"  he  said.  "I  know  where  Pedro  is 
— Presidio  county  on  the  Rio  Grande." 

We  left  that  night  with  four  horses  and  fifty  dollars 
from  Jim's  successor.  We  rode  six  hundred  miles 
and  we  got  to  Uncle  Jimmy  Ellison's  on  the  Rio 
Grande  just  as  the  peelers  were  coming  back  from 
gathering  horses  for  the  spring  work.  They  were 
running  them  into  the  corrals.  I  rode  up  and  stood 
at  the  fence.  Pedro  came  galloping  up  and  into  the 
corrals  from  the  opposite  side.  Pie  didn't  see  me. 
Like  a  flash  I  spurred  in  between  the  horses.  They 
went  wild  and  broke  from  the  corral.  Pedro  turned, 
recognized  me,  and  shouted  to  the  men.  I  fired  and 
caught  him  clean  between  the  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Chuck-buyer  for  the  Lazy  Z;  last  journey  to  Las  Cruces;  shooting  up  a 
saloon;   in  the  calaboose;    arrival  of  the  father. 

In  the  code  of  the  cowboy,  it  was  right  that  Pedro 
should  die.  I  felt  that  I  had  done  a  magnificent  thing 
to  kill  him.  Kidlike  I  had  a  notion  that  Jim  Stanton 
had  watched  and  approved. 

But  we  did  not  go  back  to  101.  We  hid  in  chapar- 
ral patches  in  the  day,  traveling  nights  until  we 
reached  the  Lazy  Z  range  near  the  Rio  Verde.  They 
made  me  chuck-buyer  here.  We  had  to  go  thirty-five 
miles  across  the  desert  to  the  town  of  Las  Cruces  for 
our  provisions.  It  was  about  three  months  after  the 
murder  of  Jim  Stanton  that  I  took  my  last  ride 
through  the  gulches.  In  a  mean  and  shameful  pre- 
dicament my  father  found  me. 

Old  Spit-Nosed  Ben,  the  superannuated  relic  of 
the  Lazy  Z,  was  with  me  on  that  last  ride.  He  was 
a  sort  of  errand  boy  on  the  ranch.  We  had  loaded  up 
the  ancient  double-decker  freight  wagon  with  about 
1,600  pounds  of  chuck.  Ben  was  hitching  up  the 
ponies.    We  were  just  ready  to  leave. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  get  a  drink. 
I  was  the  youngest  peeler  on  the  Lazy  Z.  Chuck- 
buying  was  a  man-size  job,  and  I  had  a  sense  of  great 
importance  in  it.    A  fellow  in  the  grocery  had  gibed 


WITH  O.  HENRY  23 

at  me.  *'Eh,  little  gringo  diablo,  little  wart,  where 
did  they  pick  you  off?" 

I  wanted  to  prove  myself.  At  the  101  the  men  had 
held  me  down.  Jim  had  shoved  me  away  from  whis- 
key.   I  felt  it  was  time  to  assert  myself. 

The  saloon  was  a  dingy,  one-roomed  Spanish  adobe 
with  an  atmosphere  of  stale  frijoles  and  green  flies. 
There  were  a  few  Mexicans  gambling  rather  idly  and 
a  couple  of  cowpunchers  playing  pool.  I  sauntered 
up  to  the  bar  and  took  a  drink,  ordered  another  and 
then  a  third.  It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  had  ever 
had  more  than  one  at  a  throw.  It  fired  me  in  an 
instant.  Just  to  let  them  know  I  was  there  I  shot 
three  bottles  off  the  back  bar.  The  old  looking-glass 
came  down  with  a  crash,  and  I  went  plumb  wild  and 
started  to  pump  the  place  full  of  lead.  The  Mexicans 
got  scared  and  made  for  the  back  door.  One  of  the 
cowpunchers  caught  his  billiard  cue  across  the  door 
and  the  whole  crowd  were  banked  up  there.  I  was 
reeling  by  this  time  and  went  to  busting  a  few  45's 
at  their  feet. 

Two  shots  were  fired,  just  grazing  the  skiri  of  my 
neck.  I  turned.  The  room  was  hung  with  the  gray 
smoke  cloud,  and  the  whiskey  had  me  reeling,  but 
through  the  haze  I  saw  the  bartender  aiming  straight 
for  my  head.  Two  more  shots  went  wild.  I  fired 
pointblank  at  the  fellow's  face.    He  went  down. 

It  sobered  me.  I  made  for  the  door.  A  crowd  of 
greasers  clamored  about  me.  ISIy  six-shooter  was 
empty,  ils  I  got  to  the  street  some  one  smashed  me 
across  the  head  with  a  forty-five.  I  woke  up  in  the 
calaboose. 


24  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

I  didn't  know  why  I  was  there.  I  remembered 
nothing  but  the  terrible  crashing  in  my  head.  Then 
they  told  me  that  I  had  killed  a  man  and  asked  me  if 
I  had  any  friends.  Chicken  was  the  only  fellow  on  the 
range  of  whom  I  would  ask  a  favor.  He  was  a  blind 
adder  fighter  and  came  in  to  finish  up  the  town  for 
me.    I  felt  sure  that  he  would  get  me  out  somehow. 

The  calaboose  was  a  wooden  pen  about  8  x  10  feet. 
For  six  weeks  I  was  kept  there  with  Mexican  Pete  for 
my  guard.  Pete  would  sit  in  the  sun  outside  the  grat- 
ing and  describe  my  execution.  He  went  into  all  its 
details.  Every  morning  he  strung  me  up  in  a  differ- 
ent way.  But  he  was  a  good  sort.  After  the  first 
week  we  were  friends.  Pete  had  all  the  Mexican 
treachery  to  the  stranger  and  all  their  doglike  fidehty 
to  a  friend. 

They  would  have  hanged  me  with  as  little  compunc- 
tion as  they  would  have  drowned  an  excess  kitten, 
but  they  felt  no  hatred  for  me  as  a  murderer.  Life 
was  reckoned  cheap  in  the  cow  country. 

One  morning  Pete  stuck  his  head  between  the  bars 
of  the  calaboose.  His  long  yellow  teeth  gleamed. 
"Your  padre,  he  come,"  he  said. 

It  was  as  if  lightning  went  through  me.  I  thought 
that  Pete  was  poking  more  fun  at  me.  He  repeated, 
"Your  padre,  big  fellow,  he  come." 

I  would  rather  have  been  taken  out  to  the  tree  and 
hanged.  I  did  not  want  to  see  my  father.  I  had  that 
picture  of  him  lying  at  Shrieber's  store  burned  into 
my  mind.  But  I  had  also  the  memory  of  a  hundred 
gentle  things  he  had  done,  balancing  the  roughness 
of  that  last  impression.    I  did  not  want  him  to  see  me 


WITH  O.  HENRY  25 

in  the  pen  with  a  INIexican  standing  guard  over  me. 
For  the  first  time  I  felt  sorry  for  the  whole  affair. 

It  was  Chicken  who  had  sent  for  him.  Once  in  a  fit 
of  depression  I  had  confided  in  him.  We  w^ere  out 
on  night  herd  together.  The  thick  breath  of  the  hot 
evening  weighed  about  us.  The  cattle  had  been  rest- 
less, cracking  their  horns  together,  crowding  and 
scuffling.  We  had  bedded  them  down  at  last  on  the 
level  prairie  and  there  was  that  tremendous  silence  of 
the  night  which  rests  like  the  hush  of  death  over  the 
plains. 

A  storm  was  coming.  We  feared  a  stampede. 
Chicken  and  I  sat  on  our  horses,  riding  slowly  around 
the  cattle,  singing  to  quiet  them.  We  began  to  hear 
the  rolling  boom  of  thunder.  Lightning  struck 
through  the  darkness,  darting  its  uncanny  flash  about 
the  horns  of  the  steers. 

I  felt  lonesome  and  homesick  and  full  of  premoni- 
tions. Often  since  the  death  of  Jim  Stanton  I  had 
thought  of  going  back.  I  was  tired  of  the  isolation,  of 
the  ranges.  I  wondered  about  my  father  and  my 
brothers.  I  wanted  them  to  know  if  I  died.  This 
night  I  told  Chicken  to  write  to  my  father's  people  in 
Charleston,  Va.,  if  I  should  be  killed. 

Pete  stood  there  grinning  at  me.  Never  in  my  life 
have  I  felt  so  hot  with  shame  and  humiliation.  I 
wanted  to  escape.  I  came  out  from  my  corner  to  beg 
Pete  to  free  me.  My  father,  straight,  kind,  smiling, 
stood  looking  at  me,  his  hand  stretched  through  the 
bars  of  the  calaboose, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Release  from  jail;  quiet  years  in  Virginia;  study  of  law;  a  new  migration 
to  the  West;  brawl  in  court;  news  of  death  in  the  night. 

There  was  such  a  queer,  gentle  look  in  my  father's 
face,  as  though  he  were  the  culprit  and  not  I.  It 
jabbed  me  to  the  quick.  He  never  said  a  word  of 
censure  to  me — not  then  nor  in  all  the  years  that 
followed. 

But  he  wxnt  quietly  to  w^ork  to  win  my  release. 
Three  days  later  I  left  Las  Cruces  with  him.  I  w^as 
not  even  brought  to  trial.  My  father  had  taken  a 
new  start,  studied  law,  won  success,  gathered  the 
family  about  him  and  settled  in  Charleston,  Virginia. 
The  boys  he  sent  to  the  Virginia  Mihtary  academy. 
Frank  and  I  finished  the  study  of  law  four  years  later, 
when  I  w^as  just  past  18. 

There  must  have  been  something  unstable  and  reck- 
less in  our  natures,  for  our  lives  never  ran  along  the 
level.  We  seemed  to  court  adversity.  Our  fortunes 
went  like  a  wave  through  a  continual  succession  of 
swells  and  hollows. 

We  struck  the  hollows  when  I  finished  college. 
The  family  packed  its  baggage  and  moved  to  Cold- 
water,  Kansas. 

The  Middle  West  was  wild,  new  country  then.  We 
moved  from  Kansas,  took  up  land  in  Colorado,  built 


WITH  O.  HENRY  2T 

the  town  of  Boston,  sold  town  lots,  cleared  $75,000 
and  lost  every  cent  of  it  in  the  county-seat  fight. 

Crumb-clean  we  went  into  Oklahoma  in  1889.  The 
settlers  were  all  bankrupt.  The  government  even 
issued  food  to  them.  Frank  and  I  were  both  athletes. 
We  supported  the  family  with  the  money  we  earned 
at  foot  racing. 

Just  about  this  time  one  of  the  periodic  swxlls  in 
our  fortunes  swept  my  father  into  Woodward  county, 
where  he  was  appointed  judge  by  Governor  Renfro. 
John  and  Ed  opened  law  offices  in  the  same  town. 
I  was  elected  county  attorney  of  El  Reno.  Frank 
was  deputy  clerk  in  Denver. 

It  was  the  crest  of  our  prosperity.  Judge  Jennings 
was  the  man  of  weight  in  the  community.  He  was  re- 
elected almost  unanimously.  John  and  Ed  were  the 
attorneys  in  every  big  case  that  came  up  in  the  courts. 
My  father  had  built  a  beautiful  home  and  had  a  com- 
fortable bank  account.  We  were  going  forward  with 
a  swift,  sure  current  when  the  Garst  affair,  like  the 
uncharted  rock,  blocked  our  course. 

Many  events  in  my  Hfe — the  pistol  shot  in  the  Cin- 
cinnati theatre,  the  desertion  in  the  prairies,  the  law- 
lessness of  the  ranges — seemed  to  have  been  shaping 
the  channel  for  the  rapids  that  were  to  hurl  Frank 
and  me  into  the  maelstrom  of  robbery  and  murder. 
The  Garst  case  precipitated  the  downfall. 

Jack  Love  had  been  appointed  sheriff  at  the  same 
time  my  father  was  named  judge.  He  was  a  gambler 
and  a  disreputable  character.  While  in  office  he  had 
a  Httle  habit  of  arresting  the  citizens  and  charging 
them  an  exit  fee  in  order  to  get  out  of  jail.    He  de- 


28  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

veloped  also  a  great  penchant  for  land-grabbing, 
appropriating  50,000  acres  of  the  government's 
property. 

Frank  Garst  rented  tliis  land  for  the  pasturage  of 
1,700  cattle.  He  agreed  to  pay  Love  $3,000.  When 
the  bill  was  presented  it  was  greatly  in  excess  of  this 
sum.  Garst  refused  to  pay.  Love  brought  suit. 
Temple  Houston  defended  the  interests  of  Love;  my 
brother  Ed  was  attorney  for  Garst. 

Love  came  to  Ed  and  offered  him  $1,000  in  cash  to 
dump  Garst.  Ed  refused  and  won  the  case  for  his 
client.  He  won  it  on  the  ground  that  Love  had  no 
right  to  the  land  in  the  first  place  and  was  himself 
a  trespasser. 

Love  was  out  his  $3,000.  He  was  a  bad  loser.  Ed's 
fate  was  really  sealed  when  he  won  that  case.  Love 
waited  his  chance. 

It  came  a  few  weeks  later.  I  went  to  Woodward 
to  visit  my  father.  Ed  was  defending  a  group  of  boys 
on  a  burglary  charge.  Temple  Houston,  Love's  at- 
torney, was  prosecuting.  Ed  asked  me  to  assist  him. 
The  case  was  going  against  Houston.  The  atmos- 
phere was  charged  with  bitterness.  In  the  midst  of 
my  plea,  Houston  got  to  liis  feet,  slammed  his  fist  on 
the  table  and  shouted,  "Your  honor,  the  gentleman  is 
grossly  ignorant  of  the  law." 

"You're  a  damn'  liar,"  I  answered,  without  any  par- 
ticular heat,  but  as  one  asserting  an  evident  fact. 

It  was  hke  a  blow  in  the  face  to  Houston.  He  lost 
all  control  of  himself.     "Take  that  back,  you  damn' 

little 1"     He  hurled  the  unpardonable 

epithet,  and  sprang  at  me. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  29 

His  face  was  bursting  with  rage.  His  hand  was  on 
his  forty-five  and  I  had  mine  leveled  at  him.  Light- 
ning anger  was  striking  in  all  directions.  Men  rushed 
to  the  one  side  and  the  other.  Somebody  dashed  the 
six-shooter  from  my  hand.  At  the  same  moment  I 
saw  Houston  surrounded  and  disarmed. 

The  court  proceedings  ended  for  the  day.  But 
feeling  ran  liigh — the  white-hot  fury  of  the  Southern 
cow  people.  Nothing  but  blood  cools  it.  We  knew 
that  the  settlement  must  be  made. 

For  once  in  my  life  I  was  not  eager  to  square  the 
account  with  killings.  We  went  to  Ed's  office,  my 
father  and  my  two  brothers.  My  father's  harried  face 
was  like  a  reproach  to  our  hot  tempers.  He  was  a 
broken  man.  He  seemed  to  see  the  tragic  failure  of 
his  life  of  robust  endeavor. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked,  almost  in 
an  appeal. 

"Nothing,  until  tomorrow,"  I  told  him,  for  I  had 
made  my  plans.  I  intended  to  meet  Houston,  apol- 
ogize for  my  insults,  demand  the  same  from  him  and 
let  it  go  at  that.  If  Houston  refused  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  meet  the  issue. 

My  decision  was  not  to  be.  The  town  was  divided 
into  two  factions.  Ours  outnumbered  Houston's 
two  to  one.  They  made  up  in  their  rankling  ani- 
mosity what  they  lacked  in  numbers.  It  was  as  if 
two  tigers  stood  ready  to  spring  and  each  but  waited 
to  get  the  other  in  a  corner. 

Ed  and  John  agreed  to  stay  in  town  to  watch  the 
office.    I  went  home  with  my  father. 

Never  had  the  magnetism  of  his  kind,  turbulent 


30  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

nature  seemed  so  forcible  as  in  the  weakness  of  his 
fear  for  us.  He  was  in  a  reminiscent  mood.  For  the 
first  time  he  spoke  of  that  day  when  he  had  struck  me 
down  at  Shrieber's  store.  The  tears  crowded  into  liis 
eyes.  I  knew  that  many  a  torturing  moment  had 
paid  for  that  irresponsible  blow. 

At  10  o'clock  we  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  hot  sum- 
mer night.  We  left  our  doors  open.  I  was  just  drop- 
ping into  a  slumber  when  I  heard  the  stumble  of 
frantic  footsteps  on  the  steps  below.  The  door  was 
pushed  to  and  a  broken  voice  called  out; 

"Judge,  get  up,  get  up,  judge,  quick;  they  have 
killed  both  your  boys!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

Shot  from  behind;    agonies  of   remorse;   death   scene   in   the   saloon;    a 
father's  rebuke  to  his  son;  vengeance  delayed. 

"Killed  both  your  boys!" 

The  broken  cry  seemed  running  up  the  stairs  like 
a  distraught  presence;  pounding  along  the  walls; 
shaking  through  the  doors.  Its  quiver  beat  through 
the  clamorous  silence. 

Thought  stopped.  My  blood  seemed  to  be  running 
into  molten  steel  that  was  wrapping  me  in  quick,  hot 
suffocation.  I  felt  as  though  I  were  melting  into  a 
lump  of  motionless  terror. 

My  father's  voice  sprang  through  the  hush — a 
howl,  tortured  and  agonized,  that  trailed  into  a  whist- 
ling moan.  It  shot  through  me  like  a  cold  blade. 
Livid,  gray,  helpless,  his  hands  dropped  to  his  sides, 
his  eyes  like  burnt  holes  in  a  white  cloth,  he  slumped 
against  the  door. 

Half  dressed,  I  ran  past  him,  down  the  street 
toward  the  saloon.  Something  black  and  hunched  fell 
against  me.    I  put  out  my  hand  to  strike  it  off. 

"Only  me — got  Ed — cleaned  out — hurry." 

It  was  John.  His  face  was  a  monstrous  red  stain. 
His  coat  was  drenched  with  blood.  His  left  arm — 
shattered  from  the  shoulder. 

"Hurry!"  he  gasped.    "Go.    Fm  O.  K.    Only  got 


32  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

me  in  the  shoulder.  Ed's  done  up.  Oh,  for  God's 
sake,  go  and  be  quick  about  it." 

Ed  was  dead.  John  was  dying.  My  father  broken- 
hearted. 

And  all  thanks  to  me!  Never  was  anybody  so 
ivhipped  wuth  remorse,  so  crushed.  Pretty  work  my 
crude  violence  had  done  at  last !  My  unbridled  temper 
was  the  real  murderer.  If  I  had  not  come  on  this 
visit!  If  I  had  only  stayed  on  the  range!  If  they 
had  only  hanged  me  in  Las  Cruces!  Like  a  pack  of 
hounds  the  bitter  thoughts  kept  baying  at  me  as  I 
went  that  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  saloon. 

When  I  lunged  through  that  door  the  crowd 
snapped  apart  like  a  taut  string.  Some  scooted  under 
the  gambhng  table — others  made  for  the  door.  The 
place  was  cleared. 

And  there  on  the  floor,  lying  in  a  huge  blot  of  warm 
blood,  his  face  downward,  was  my  brother  Ed.  He 
had  been  shot  through  the  head,  just  at  the  base  of  the 
brain. 

All  that  was  good  and  human  and  soft  in  me  rushed 
into  my  throat,  cried  itself  out  and  died  that  hour  that 
I  sat  there  with  Ed's  head  in  my  lap  and  his  blood 
soaked  into  my  hands  and  my  clothes.  Death  was 
stealing  into  my  soul  with  a  bhght  more  fatal  than 
the  wrecking  of  my  brother's  body. 

No  one  spoke — no  one  put  out  a  hand  to  me,  until 
presently  the  doctor  leaned  forward.  "Al,  let  me 
do  something;  get  up  now." 

At  the  words  the  saloon  was  suddenly  a-hum  w^ith 
voices.  Men  crowded  about  me.  Sentences  seemed  to 
rush  from  them  like  pebbles  down  a  cliff. 


WITH  O,  HENRY  33 

"He  was  right  there — playing  pitch,"  some  one 
began.     Another  and  another  interrupted. 

*'They  struck  from  behind — " 

*'They  sneaked  in—" 

*'They  soaked  him  when  he  was  down — '* 

"They  pumped  John—" 

"They  beat  it  hke  coyotes — " 

And  then  they  put  it  all  together  and  told  it  again 
and  again  from  the  beginning. 

The  saloon  was  the  two-room  wooden  shack  with 
bar  and  gambling  house  combined,  the  common  type 
in  the  Middle  West  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  Ed 
was  plajang  pitch  at  one  of  the  little  side  tables  in  the 
gambling-room.  At  one  end  of  this  room  the  town 
band  was  giving  a  concert.  A  score  of  crap  shooters 
were  busy  on  either  side. 

Temple  Houston  and  Jack  Love  came  in  by  the 
back  door,  passed  in  front  of  the  band  and  separated, 
Houston  going  toward  Ed,  \Love  sneaking,  unseen, 
behind  his  table.     Both  men  were  drunk. 

"Are  you  going  to  apologize?"  Houston  blubbered. 
Ed  turned  and  faced  him.    His  back  was  to  Love. 

"When  you're  sober  come  back.  Apologies  will  be 
settled  then." 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  Houston  answered, 
shuffling  off.  At  the  same  instant  Love  jammed  his 
forty-five  against  Ed's  head  and  fired.  As  he 
dropped,  Houston  rushed  up  and  pumped  two  bul- 
lets into  my  brother's  skull. 

When  the  shooting  broke  the  gamblers  barricaded 
themselves  behind  the  tables.  Men  in  the  bar-room 
scurried  into  the  street.    John  was  standing  outside. 


34  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

He  rushed  in  as  Ed  fell.  Half  way  across  the  outer 
room  Houston  and  Love  caught  him  with  a  full  vol- 
ley. Before  anyone  recovered  from  the  sudden  panic 
the  murderers  were  gone. 

They  brought  Ed  home.  John  lay  dying.  My 
father  sat  up  and  watched.  I  could  not  go  near  the 
house.  I  went  out  to  the  barn  and  waited.  I  felt  like 
another  Cain. 

There  was  no  indecision  in  my  mind.  I  knew 
that  my  lawless  temper  had  precipitated  the  killing. 
But  Love  had  been  laying  for  Ed.  He  had  ribbed 
Houston  to  the  shooting.  They  had  murdered  de- 
liberately, cowardly — they  had  shot  from  behind. 

Before  the  night  was  over  the  news  went  like  a 
flame  through  the  country.  Woodward  held  its 
breath  and  waited  for  the  answering  shot. 

Houston  and  Love  would  come  back.  They  ex- 
pected me  to  get  them. 

The  remorse  of  the  night  before  had  reared  like 
a  coiled  snake  into  a  poisonous  vengeance.  There 
would  be  no  quitting  now. 

The  mean,  sordid  gray  of  early  morning  had  just 
streaked  the  night  sky.  My  father  came  out  to  the 
barn.  He  looked  tall  and  grim,  but  blanched  as  a 
leper. 

"Come  in  with  me."  His  voice  seemed  pressed  and 
flattened  with  misery.  "Come  in  here."  He  led  the 
way  to  the  room  where  John  lay  in  a  moaning  de- 
lirium. 

"There's  one,"  he  pointed. 

And  then  he  moved  silently  into  the  other  room 
where  Ed  had  been  placed  on  the  board  table. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  35 

My  father's  cavernous  eyes  glowed  into  mine  in  a 
blazing  scrutiny. 

"There's  two,"  he  said. 

"Now  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Are  you  going 
to  finish  us?" 

It  was  like  a  whiplash  cutting  a  welt  across  my 
face.     I  felt  like  a  beaten,  cowering  dog. 

Neither  of  us  spoke.  It  was  hard  even  to  breathe. 
I  could  see  that  my  father's  hand  trembled.  I  did 
not  want  to  look  into  his  accusing  face. 

What  did  he  mean  ?  Did  he  expect  me  to  do  noth- 
ing, while  all  of  Woodward  waited  for  the  blow? 

He  knew  the  spirit  of  these  prairie  towns.  Men 
settled  their  own  accounts  in  swift  and  deadly  fash- 
ion. Ex-fugitives  and  old  range  men  made  up  the 
population.    They  paid  Httle  tribute  to  the  law. 

The  marshals  who  administered  it  were  the  meanest 
men  in  the  country.  They  were  mostly  former  horse- 
thieves,  rustlers  or  renegade  gamblers. 

The  outlaws  did  their  financeering  with  a  six- 
shooter  ;  the  marshals  used  a  whiskey  bottle. 

I  have  known  deputy  U.  S.  marshals,  dozens  of 
times,  deliberately  sneak  the  bottle  into  the  schooner 
wagons  going  across  the  plains;  double  back  on  the 
occupants,  search  the  wagons,  find  the  bottle,  tie  their 
victims  to  the  trees,  hold  them  until  the  scoundrelly 
trick  gave  them  about  10  prisoners.  Then  they  would 
drive  them  all  into  Fort  Smith,  produce  their  fraudu- 
lent evidence,  collect  mileage  and  cold-bloodedly  have 
those  innocent  men  sent  up  for  four  or  five  years  on 
the  charge  of  introducing  liquor  into  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory.    Ohio  penitentiary,  when  I  landed  there,  was 


36  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

choked  with  men  serving  time  on  such  trumped-up 
cases. 

The  marshals  grabbed  off  about  $2,000  on  the  deal. 
The  cowpunchers  who  sometimes  became  outlaws 
were  clean  men  by  comparison.  They  took  little  stock 
in  the  justice  of  sneak  thieves. 

These  things  I  knew.  It  w^as  not  murder  to  strike 
down  the  men  who  had  shot  from  the  back.  In  the 
Middle  West,  it  was  honor. 

It  was  not  honor  that  I  wanted,  but  vengeance. 
Ed  and  I  had  been  12  years  together.  He  had  taken 
the  place  of  Stanton,  of  Chicken.  He  was  more  than 
either  to  me.  Big  natured,  clear  brained,  the  gentlest 
fellow  that  ever  lived — and  there  he  was  with  the  back 
of  his  poor  head  blown  off  with  the  murderous  bullets. 

''Listen  to  me!"  My  father's  voice  seemed  rumb- 
ling through  a  wall  of  pain.  It  jerked  me  back. 
^'Listen  to  me.  There's  been  killing  enough.  There's 
been  sorrow  enough. 

"Your  brother  has  paid  the  penalty  of  vengeance. 
John,  too,  may  pay.  Where  will  it  end?  When 
Woodward  runs  with  blood?" 

He  went  on  as  though  he  v/ere  possessed. 

"You  shall  not  do  it.  I  am  the  judge  here.  I  was 
appointed  when  the  county  was  formed.  I  was 
named  to  maintain  the  law.  If  my  own  sons  will  not 
stand  by  me  w^hat  can  I  expect  from  others?" 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopped.  His  colorless  face 
seemed  crumpled  with  misery.  "Al,  you  won't  do 
anything  till  Frank  comes,  will  you?" 

Frank  came  on  from  Denver.  My  father  had  his 
way. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  37 

"Let  them  go  to  trial,"  Frank  said.  "He  wants  it. 
I'll  do  no  killing." 

Frank  was  always  like  that,  impulsive,  soft-hearted, 
generous — undecided  until  he  got  into  action,  then 
he  tore  ahead  deadly  and  relentless  as  a  very  hell  on 
wheels.  As  for  myself,  I  felt  a  blazing  hatred  against 
them  all  in  my  heart.  I  made  one  promise.  I  would 
wait  until  the  trial  was  over.  If  the  law  failed,  I 
would  strike. 

But  we  could  not  stay  in  Woodward.  Not  even  the 
old  gentleman  could  stand  that.  He  took  John  down 
to  Tecumseh  and  almost  immediately  was  named  a 
judge  there.  Frank  and  I  went  to  the  sheriff,  Tob 
Olden,  and  told  him  we  would  wait.  He  was  disap- 
pointed. 

"May  want  to  hit  the  bulFs  eye  later,  boys.  When 
you  reckon  to  bust  them  off,  Tob  Olden's  house  is 
yours." 


CHAPTER  VI 

In  the  outlaws'  country;  acquittal  of  the  assassins;  a  brother's  rage;  false 
accusation;  the  father's  denunciation;  refuge  in  tbe  outlaw's  camp. 

Nearly  ever^^  range  on  the  prali'ies  sheltered  and 
winked  at  outlaw  gangs.  From  peeler  to  highway- 
man was  a  short  step. 

Frank  and  I  went  down  to  the  Spike  S  to  hang  up 
till  after  the  trial. 

John  Harhss  owned  the  ranch.  The  Snake  Creek 
and  the  Arkansas  river  ran  through  his  100,000  acres. 
It  was  an  ideal  haunt  for  fugitives.  Harliss  was  hos- 
pitable. The  Conchorda  Mountains,  like  tremendous 
black  towers,  formed  a  massive  wall  on  one  side.  The 
chff  came  down  to  the  creek.  On  the  near  side  of 
the  water  the  land  rolled  out  in  a  magnificent  sweep 
of  low  hills  and  valleys. 

Once  across  the  Snake  Creek  to  the  mountain  side, 
and  capture  was  almost  impossible.  Dogwood,  pecan 
trees,  briar  and  Cottonwood  matted  together  and 
spread  like  a  jungle  growth  up  the  mountain  and 
there  wasn't  a  marshal  in  the  State  would  set  a  horse 
toward  it. 

It  was  across  the  Snake  Creek  and  up  the  Con- 
chorda  that  I  made  my  last  race  against  the  law, 
years  later. 

I  went  cow-punching  there;  Frank  went  over  to 
Pryor's  Creek,  20  miles  distant. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  39 

The  branding  pen  was  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
timber  on  the  near  side  of  the  creek.  Harhss  was 
not  over-particular  as  to  the  ownership  of  the  calves 
branded.    His  pen  was  well  concealed. 

One  morning  we  were  branding  the  cattle.  Five 
men  rode  up,  nodded  to  Harliss  and  began  stripping 
off  the  meat  from  the  carcass  hanging  in  the  trees. 
One  of  them  came  over  to  me. 

''Reckon  you  don't  remember  me?  Reckon  you 
uster  work  on  the  Lazy  Z  for  my  father?" 

He  knew  of  the  shooting  in  Las  Cruces.  He  knew 
of  my  brother's  murder.  He  knew  I  had  a  fast  gun 
and  a  close  mouth.  He  told  me  of  a  robbery  that 
had  been  pulled  off  on  the  Sante  Fe. 

"Ain't  much  in  range  work,"  he  ended.  "Reckon 
you'll  join  us  yet." 

He  was  a  shrewd  prophet.  Not  more  than  a  month 
later  John  Harliss  was  sitting  on  the  porch  of  the 
ranch  house.  I  was  standing  in  the  door.  A  nester 
rode  up.    We  knew  that  something  had  happened. 

The  nester  comes  only  to  bring  news.  If  there's 
one  fellow  in  the  world  that  loves  gossip  it's  these 
puffy  little  farmers  that  nestle  in  the  flats.  It  makes 
them  big  with  importance. 

John  Harliss  was  a  blond  giant.  He  towered  over 
the  blustering  nester. 

"Ain't  heard  the  news,  hev  ye?"  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  me  and  added  furtively.  "They  cleared  the 
fellows  that  killed  Jennings'  brother." 

Houston  and  Love  free! 

The  thing  I  had  been  dreading  and  expecting  for 
six  months  came  now  with  a  shock  that  sent  a  cold 


40  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

fury  of  resolution  through  me.  I  knew  that  I  would 
have  to  do  deliberately  what  I  should  have  done  in 
passion. 

It  was  not  blood-lust,  but  raging  vindictiveness  that 
spurred  ire  on  the  75-mile  ride  to  my  father's  house. 

The  hoofbeats  stopping  at  his  door  aroused  him. 
When  he  saw  me,  he  stood  as  one  petrified. 

"Lo,  your  honor!"  I  put  out  my  hand.  He  did  not 
take  it. 

*'What  have  you  been  doing?"*  Never  had  I  seen 
his  eye  so  cold,  so  hostile.  "What  does  this  mean?" 
He  reached  into  his  pocket,  took  out  a  folded  hand- 
bill and  offered  it  for  me  to  read. 

''Reward  for  the  apprehension  of  Al  Jennings,"  it 
said,  "wanted  for  the  robbery  of  the  Santa  Fe  Ex- 
press." 

I  saw  it  in  a  moment.  That  was  the  work  of  Hous- 
ton and  Love.  They  would  get  me  out  of  the  way. 
They  would  save  their  cringing  hides  by  another  cow- 
ardly attack. 

"I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.     I*m  damn'  sorry  I 

didn't "    I  hurled  the  words  at  my  father.  Anger 

caught  me  by  the  throat  and  was  choking  me. 
"Damned  if  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  By  hell, 
they'll  pay  for  it." 

"If  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  give  up  and 
clear  yourself.     That's  the  way  to  make  them  pay." 

One  of  those  sudden  shifts  from  command  to  appeal 
softened  my  father's  face.  "Do  you  want  to  bring 
disgrace  on  the  name?"  he  asked. 

"The  name  be  damned  and  the  law  and  everything 
connected  with  it.    I  hate  it." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  41 

"If  you  don't  come  in  and  clear  yourself,  I'm  fin- 
ished with  you." 

"I  can't  clear  myself,"  I  told  him.  "The  Harliss 
range  harbors  outlaws.  I  can't  bring  them  in  to  prove 
an  alibi  for  me.  Harliss  wasn't  there  at  the  time.  If 
I  did  give  up,  I  couldn't  establish  my  innocence." 

"Then  you're  guilty?" 

Not  in  all  the  lawlessness  of  my  early  life,  nor  in 
all  the  frenzy  of  sorrow  and  revenge  after  the  mur- 
der, had  such  a  full  tide  of  storming  violence  beaten 
down  the  discretion  of  my  nature.  If  he  distrusted 
me  what  had  I  to  expect  from  enemies? 

I  w^ent  out  from  my  father's  house,  lashed  with  a 
desperate,  unappeasable  fury.  I  wanted  something 
to  happen  that  once  and  for  all  would  put  me  beyond 
the  pale. 

I  slept  out  on  the  range  and  the  next  morning  rode 
toward  Arbeka.  I  had  eaten  nothing  the  day  before. 
On  the  public  road  through  the  timber  on  the  old 
trail  west  from  Fort  Smith  was  a  little  country  store. 
I  could  have  carried  off  nearly  all  its  contents  in  my 
shcker. 

Five  men  were  lounging  on  the  bench  near  the  horse 
rack  when  I  threw  my  bridle  over  the  pole.  Their 
horses  were  tied.  I  couldn't  tell  whether  they  were 
marshals  or  horse-thieves  from  the  look  of  them. 
Whatever  difference  there  is  favors  the  horse-thief. 

I  bought  some  cheese  and  crackers.  When  I  came 
out  my  horse  was  gone. 

"Where's  my  horse?"  The  fellow  felt  the  hot  blast 
of  anger  in  the  challenge. 

"Ran  away,"  he  answered. 


42  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

*'Ran?"  I  snapped  at  him.  "Some  of  you  fellows 
turned  him  loose." 

In  the  glade  about  200  yards  distant,  I  saw  my 
horse  nibbling  grass.  I  ran  down,  mounted  and  was 
just  galloping  off  when  a  shot  whizzed  past,  then  a 
clash,  a  volley,  and  the  next  moment  the  horse  lunged 
sideward  and  thumped  to  the  ground,  pinning  my 
leg  under  him. 

They  were  possemen  out  to  get  me  on  the  holdup. 
They  were  five  to  one  and  they  didn't  even  try  to  take 
me  on  the  porch.  They  fired  without  calling  for  a 
surrender.  It  was  better  to  get  a  suspected  train- 
robber  dead  than  alive.  The  question  of  guilt  and  the 
surety  of  reward  were  then  settled  beyond  dispute. 

I  pulled  myself  free,  started  firing  Uke  a  madman, 
and  saw  two  of  them  drop.  I  hid  behind  a  tree,  re- 
loaded and  went  for  the  porch,  shooting  as  I  went. 
Two  of  them  ran  into  the  timber. 

As  I  got  to  the  store  the  fifth  tumbled  over  into 
the  brush.  I  ran  inside,  took  up  an  ax  and  smashed 
the  place  to  pieces.  The  owner  crawled  out  from  be- 
hind an  empty  cider  barrel.  I  didn't  care  what  I  did. 
The  viciousness  of  their  attack  infuriated  me.  I 
busted  one  at  him  as  he  crawled  out  the  back  door. 

The  drawer  in  the  counter  was  open.  There  was 
$27.50  in  it.  I  took  it.  I  needed  no  money,  but  the 
theft  filled  me  with  happiness.  I  had  taken  a  definite 
step.  I  was  a  criminal  now.  My  choice  was  made. 
I  was  one  with  the  outlaws.  For  the  first  time  since 
Ed's  death,  I  felt  at  peace.  I  knew  that  I  would  have 
a  gang  with  me  now  to  the  end. 

The  big  iron-gray  horse  that  had  stood  undisturbed 


WITH  O.  HENRY  43 

during  the  ruckus,  I  mounted  and  started  back  to  the 
Harliss  ranch.  My  foot  was  sHpping  up  and  down 
in  my  boot.    I  looked  down. 

The  boot  was  filled  with  blood.  One  of  the  bullets 
had  struck  through  the  muscles  above  my  ankle.  I 
picked  it  out  with  my  pen-knife  and  stuffed  the  hole 
with  a  puff-ball  weed. 

When  I  got  to  the  range  I  did  not  stop  at  the  house 
but  made  for  the  cover  in  the  timber.  As  I  came  near 
a  pang  of  fear  shot  through  me.  It  was  long  past 
midnight,  but  they  had  a  fire  blazing.  One  of  the  men 
raised  himself  stealthily  and  glanced  toward  me. 

He  nodded. 

The  sudden  elation  at  the  store  was  dissipated. 
Should  I  go  on?  Could  I  rely  on  these  men?  I  no 
longer  felt  at  ease  with  them.  Should  I  tell  them 
what  had  happened?  The  silence  of  the  fugitive  is 
inbred.  The  reserve  of  the  savage  in  his  armor.  In- 
nocent, I  had  trusted  the  outlaws ;  guilty,  I  doubted 
their  loyalty. 

"Hello,"  Andy  called. 

"I'm  coming  over,"  I  answered,  guiding  my  horse 
into  the  deep  stream. 

"Want  some  coffee?"  Jake  asked.  I  was  Hmping 
miserably.    They  asked  no  question. 

"Looks  like  you  got  snagged,"  Bill  offered. 

"Got  shot.  They  tried  to  kill  me.  Soaked  my 
horse  full  of  lead.  They  beat  it.  I  robbed  the  damned 
store." 

"Reckon  you're  with  us." 

Andy  settled  it. 

They  had  a  cozy  camp  hidden  there  in  the  lap  of 


44  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

the  mountains.  An  old  wagon  sheet,  stretched  be- 
tween two  poles,  roofed  the  kitchen.  Bill  was  making 
biscuits  in  the  flour  sack,  shuffling  up  just  enough 
dough  and  not  wetting  the  rest. 

I  was  lying  on  the  ground  at  the  fire.  A  man  on 
horseback  in  the  level  at  the  edge  of  the  creek  had 
reined  in  and  sat  staring  at  me. 

Andy  nodded  to  him.  He  came  over.  It  was  Bob, 
the  fourth  man  of  the  gang. 

"It's  O.  K.,"  he  said.    "She  stops  at  the  tank." 


CHAPTER  VII 

Planning  a  holdup;   terrors  of  a  novice;  the  train-robbery;   a  bloodless 
victory;  division  of  the  spoils;  new  threat  of  peril. 

"She  rolls  in  at  11:25.  We'll  get  the  old  man  to 
dump  her. 

"And  if  it  ain't  there,  we'll  have  to  take  up  a  col- 
lection from  the  passengers." 

They  sat  under  the  wagon  sheet,  stowing  in  the 
biscuits  and  coolly  doping  out  the  "medicine." 

I  was  getting  soft  in  the  backbone.  I  hadn't  fig- 
ured to  jump  right  into  a  train-robbery.  Here  were 
four  men  deliberately  planning  to  stick  up  an  express 
car  as  leisurely  as  a  batch  of  Wall-street  brokers 
hatching  out  a  legitimate  steal.  Little  quivering  ar- 
rows of  nervousness  went  pricking  through  me.  I 
felt  that  I  had  cast  in  my  lot  with  Andy  and  his  gang 
too  hastily.  The  darkness  fretted  me.  I  began  cast- 
ing about  for  an  alibi. 

"Broke?"  I  asked.  "I  have  some  money.  I've  got 
$327.    It's  yours." 

Andy  flipped  his  fingers.  Nobody  else  paid  the 
sHghtest  attention  to  the  offer.  Five  men  were  better 
than  four.  I  was  committed.  The  M.  K.  T.  was  due 
to  be  robbed  at  11:25  on  the  following  night  as  she 
chugged  across  the  bridge  on  the  Verdigras  river 
north  of  the  Muskogee.  The  crossing  was  about  40 
miles  from  the  Spike  S  ranch. 


46  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Toward  morning  we  turned  in.  I  was  the  only 
one  who  didn't  sleep.  Andy  told  me  afterward  that 
green  hands  always  feel  the  yellow  streak  the  first 
time.  Wlien  the  light  came  sneaking  through  the 
clouds,  I  began  to  feel  better.  The  oppression  of  the 
night  is  an  uncanny  thing  to  a  man  beset  with  fearful 
indecisions. 

There  wasn't  another  word  said  about  the  holdup. 
We  lolled  about  and  let  the  horses  take  their  ease  until 
the  late  afternoon.  I  was  anxious  to  be  on  the  road 
— to  have  the  suspense  over — to  start  the  scrap  and 
be  done  with  it. 

We  mounted  about  3  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and 
made  ahead  at  an  amiable  trot,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  rest.  We  wanted  to  keep  the  horses  cool  for 
the  return.  It  was  coal  dark  when  we  rode  into  a 
clump  of  timber,  tied  one  of  the  horses  to  a  cotton- 
wood  tree  and  threw  the  other  bridles  over  his  saddle 
horn.    It  all  helps  in  the  getaway. 

As  soon  as  we  climbed  down  through  the  brush, 
the  terror  of  the  night  before,  a  thousand  times  inten- 
sified, jabbed  through  me.  The  branches  of  every  tree 
rustled  with  alarms.  I  expected  any  moment  to  see 
marshals  step  from  behind  the  trunks  or  angry  citi- 
zens swoop  do^vn  on  us.  The  nearest  house  was 
five  miles  distant  and  the  only  living  soul  around,  the 
old  pump  man.  But  the  dry  sticks  crackled  like  a 
festive  bonfire.  I  wanted  to  caution  them  to  pick 
their  way. 

I  felt  as  though  the  entire  responsibility  rested  on 
my  shoulders.  It  occurred  to  me  the  whole  affair  had 
been  bungled.    They  had  not  planned  it  out  enough. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  47 

"Suppose  the  old  man  won't  stop  the  train?''  the 
question  popped  out.    Andy  laughed  in  my  ear. 

*'Then  they'll  have  to  get  a  new  man  at  the  pump 
house,"  he  confided. 

This  put  a  crimp  in  me.  I  had  shot  men  without 
any  particular  grudge,  but  to  murder  in  cold  blood 
as  a  matter  of  business — I'd  have  given  anything  on 
God's  green  earth  to  be  off  the  job. 

**Who's  got  a  match?"  Jake  chirped  as  merrily  as 
though  he  sat  in  his  own  dining-room. 

"For  God's  sake,  you're  not  going  to  strike  a  match 
here,  are  you?"  Even  the  hoarse  whisper  seemed  to 
boom  through  the  silence.  Jake  struck  the  match, 
covering  the  light  with  his  coat.  He  took  out  his 
watch.  It  was  just  11:10.  Fifteen  minutes  and  the 
train  would  roll  in. 

The  massive  iron  bridge  all  but  crashed  to  pieces 
as  I  put  a  light  foot  on  its  beams.  The  tall  girders 
heaved  together.  In  a  panic,  I  lost  my  footing  and 
half  slipped  through  the  trestle.  And}  scooped  his 
hand  down  and  grabbed  me  up  as  though  I  were  a 
kitten. 

Our  plan  was  to  stop  the  train  on  the  middle  of  the 
bridge  to  prevent  the  passengers  from  getting  out. 
We  would  stall  these  cars  on  the  trestle;  the  express 
would  halt  at  the  tank.  We  could  rifle  it  and  make  a 
getaway  before  any  alarm  could  be  sent. 

Andy  gave  the  orders. 

"Bob,  go  bring  the  old  man  down  and  drag  a  red 
light  along. 

"Jake,  you  and  Bill  get  on  that  side — ^Al  and  I  will 
take  the  right.    We  need  all  the  men  tonight." 


48  TPIROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

As  Bob  sauntered  off,  I  wondered  if  I  would  ever 
see  him  again.  He  came  back,  chugging  the  old  man 
in  the  back  with  his  six-shooter  and  ribbing  him  as 
he  came. 

"Don't  fall  on  this  gim.  Bub,  or  someone  will  do  a 
slow  walk  tomorrow."  The  old  fellow  was  chattering 
with  fear. 

"Be  easy,  lad;  be  easy,  be  easy,"  he  kept  repeating 
like  a  magpie.  "I  ain't  a-going  to  kick  a  ruckus;  be 
easy." 

Suddenly  there  came  a  rumbling  and  a  singing  of 
the  rails.  Andy  and  I  flopped  to  our  sides.  A  hght 
like  a  great  eye  flashed  through  the  timber.  The 
engine  chugged  viciously,  heaved,  whistled  for  the 
tank  and  stopped. 

Stopped  of  its  own  accord  for  water  before  it  even 
got  to  the  bridge !  I  got  ringy  from  head  to  foot  and 
was  rolling  in  the  grass  when  a  shot  banged  out  and  a 
man  swinging  a  light  jumped  off  the  train.  It  was 
the  conductor.  He  dashed  right  past  me.  I  never 
thought  to  stop  him.  Andy  ran  past  and  fired.  I 
came,  too,  then  and  began  running  and  ^^elling  up 
and  down  the  tracks.  Bill  and  Jake  were  firing  and 
hollering  on  the  other  side  of  the  train  like  an  army 
of  maniacs. 

"Keep  it  up;  that's  it — "  Andy  yelled  to  me. 

I  did.  Two  or  three  passengers  started  to  the  steps. 
I  fired  in  the  air.  They  ducked.  The  fun  was  get- 
ting hot  and  furious.    I  was  as  happy  as  a  drunkard. 

And  then  the  engine  began  to  heave  and  the  train 
pulled  out.  I  was  afraid  of  nothing.  I  wanted  to 
run  after  it  and  kick  it  good-bye.    I  felt  like  bellow- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  49 

ing.  I  wanted  everyone  to  know  I  had  stuck  up  a 
train  and  done  it  wonderfully. 

The  hush  seemed  to  swallow  us  up.  Out  of  the 
darkness  I  could  feel  Andy  and  Bob  coming  toward 
us.  They  didn't  say  a  word.  We  started  back  qui- 
etly.   I  began  to  wonder  what  it  was  all  about. 

"Didn't  get  a  bean?"  I  ventured.  Andy  caught 
my  arm. 

"Hell,  yes,  we  went  into  the  express,"  he  said.  "We 
got  a  little  bundle." 

I  didn't  even  know  they  had  gone  into  the  express. 
I  didn't  know  they  had  taken  a  cent.  I  was  so  caught 
up  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement  and  suspense,  I  hadn't 
an  inkling  of  Andy's  maneuvers. 

He  had  ordered  the  engineer  out.  Bob  had  cor- 
nered the  express  messenger.  The  two  were  as  mild 
as  lambs.  They  did  more  than  they  were  told.  The 
messenger  opened  up  the  safe  and  handed  over  the 
winnings. 

I  asked  no  more.  I  wanted  to  feel  hke  an  oldtimer. 
But  I  went  across  that  bridge  as  though  my  feet  were 
winged.  I  didn't  fall  through  the  trestle  this  time. 
The  girders  didn't  cram  about  me  and  I  never  noticed 
whether  the  water  was  black  or  yellow.  I  was  filled 
with  a  thrill  of  great  achievement. 

A  few  shots  had  been  fired  in  the  air,  but  not  a 
man  had  been  hurt,  not  a  blow  struck  and  here  we 
were  galloping  back  with  a  bundle  of  boodle  in  our 
slickers.  The  whole  job  had  taken  little  more  than 
half  an  hour.  We  struck  into  the  timber  of  our  en- 
campment well  before  daylight. 

The  boys  flopped  down  on  the  grass.    Jake  and  I 


50  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

stirred  up  a  fire  and  put  on  a  pot  of  coffee.  I  was 
obsessed  with  curiosity.  I  wanted  to  know  what  we 
had  got — if  it  had  been  worth  our  while.  Jake 
talked  and  talked.  He  didn't  say  one  word  about  the 
stickup.  He  chewed  on  about  old  times  on  the  Red 
Fork,  about  his  kid  days,  about  every  fool  thing  but 
the  holdup.    I  was  bitten  with  eagerness. 

Nobody  else  seemed  worried  about  the  profits. 
They  gulped  down  coffee  and  stripped  off  meat  as 
though  eating  were  the  one  business  of  life.  I  began 
to  fear  that  the  reckoning  would  be  postponed  until 
the  next  day.  Andy  stretched  himself,  yawned  and 
leisurely  pointed  to  the  horses. 

"Bill,  go  over  to  my  saddle-bag,"  he  said,  at  last. 
*'We  might  as  well  split  this  now." 

I  started  up,  knocking  over  the  coffee  pot.  I  had 
an  idea  it  would  take  two  men  to  carry  the  boodle. 
Andy  grinned  and  rubbed  his  chin  on  his  shoulder. 
'No  kid  opening  a  Christmas  package  ever  felt  a  hap- 
pier shiver  of  excitement  than  I  when  that  bundle 
was  called  for. 

We  were  lying  around  the  fire.  Its  flicker  in  the 
gray  darkness  caught  the  faces  of  the  men  in  a  ruddy 
glow.  There  were  two  packages.  Both  were  small. 
Andy  took  one,  opened  it  and  emptied  a  lot  of  cheap 
jewelry  into  his  hat. 

Little  blue  and  red  stones  flashed — gold  necklaces 
glinted;  ponderous  watches  ticked  almost  as  loud  as 
alarms.  I  lay  there  fascinated  as  though  the  jewels 
of  an  enchanted  treasure  chest  were  sparkling  in  the 
firelight. 

Andy  lumped  them  into  five  piles,  opened  the  other 


WITH  O.  HENRY  51 

package  and  counted  out  $6,000  in  currency.  I  felt 
a  chill  of  disappointment;  $600,000  would  have  been 
closer  to  my  expectations. 

To  a  copper,  the  pile  was  divided.  Each  man  got 
$1,200  and  a  handful  of  trinkets.  I  jammed  these 
spoils  into  my  pocket  with  a  rapture  no  attorney's 
fee  had  ever  given  me.  I  had  earned  as  much  in  half 
an  hour  of  gripping  excitement  as  a  year's  labor  as 
county  attorney  had  given  me! 

Years  later,  when  I  was  in  the  Ohio  Penitentiary 
and  O.  Henry  had  been  released  and  was  struggling 
for  success  in  New  York,  I  wrote  him  the  details  of 
this  holdup  and  added  a  lot  of  incidents  from  other 
jobs.    I  wanted  to  write  a  short  story  about  it. 

O.  Henry  was  Bill  Porter  in  those  days.  When  he 
left  the  penitentiary  he  slammed  the  door  on  his  past. 
He  went  to  New  York  burning  with  the  shame  of  his 
imprisonment  and  determined  to  hide  his  identity  be- 
hind the  name  of  O.  Henry.  Billy  Raidler,  a  fellow 
convict,  and  I  were  about  the  only  ones  who  knew 
him  as  an  ex-con.  The  three  of  us  were  pals  in  the 
pen.  Raidler  was  despondent — a  typical  jailbird 
pessimist.  In  every  letter  Porter  wrote  he  urged  me 
to  stick  by  Billy,  to  remind  him  that  two  people  in  the 
world  believed  in  him. 

In  answer  to  my  letter  he  sent  me  detailed  instruc- 
tions. He  told  me  just  how  to  write  the  "Holdup." 
I  did  the  best  I  could  and  sent  the  manuscript  to  him. 
He  waved  the  O.  Henry  wand  over  it,  turned  it  into 
a  real  story  and  sold  it  to  Everybody  s.  It  was  one 
of  his  first  successes.    We  went  50-50  on  the  profits. 

By  the  time  that  story  was  written  I  had  learned 


52  THROUGH  THE  SHiUDOWS 

that  the  drawbacks  of  the  game  outweigh  a  thousand 
to  one  the  thrills.  That  first  stickup  was  pulled  off 
too  successfully.    It  made  me  cocksure. 

I  had  been  forced  into  outlawry  by  the  unwar- 
ranted attack  at  the  Arbeka  store.  I  knew  the 
Southwest  well  enough  to  see  that  I  would  be  rail- 
roaded to  the  penitentiary  on  the  w^ord  of  the  mar- 
shals, as  scores  had  been  before.  I  went  into  the 
game  unwillingly  and  was  immediately  captivated  by 
its  intensity — its  apparent  security.  Revenge  gave 
place  to  recklessness. 

Not  a  rumor  of  the  holdup  reached  the  ranch.  We 
lay  around  for  days.  Andy  went  off  on  his  own  hook. 
Bill  slipped  out  a  week  later.  Jake,  Bob  and  I 
went  up  to  the  ranch  house.  A  month  had  passed. 
We  were  not  suspected.  We  decided  to  pull  off  an- 
other wad. 

I  wanted  to  get  the  Santa  Fe.  That  was  the  charge 
in  the  handbill  my  father  had  shown  me.  I  was  con- 
denrned  on  that  score  already.  I  might  as  well  have 
the  boodle. 

We  were  planning  it  one  night  at  the  ranch  house. 
Harliss  had  gone  to  town.  It  was  very  late. 
"What's  that?"  Jack  started  up. 
Through  the  quiet,  hke  hea^y  drumbeats  pounding 
along  the  road,  came  the  sound  of  a  single  galloping 
horse.  We  knew  it  must  be  a  peeler.  Possemen 
never  travel  alone. 

At  the  porch  he  drew  up.    It  was  Frank. 
I  had  not  seen  him  since  the  news  of  the  trial  came. 
The  old,  bonnj^  gladness  was  gone  from  his  face. 
''They've  freed  them!    You  heard  it?" 


WITH  O.  HENRY  53 

Like  a  slap  in  the  face,  his  haggard  look  struck 
me.    He  leaned  forward,  and  lowered  his  voice. 

'Hush,"  he  whispered.  "I've  got  the  goods.  Get 
to  your  horse,  quick.  The  lousy  cutthroats  have  put 
up  a  deal.  They'll  stop  at  nothing.  They've  got  a 
posse  after  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Hunting  the  enemy;  the  convention  at  El  Reno;  drama  in  the  town-hall; 

flight  of  the  conspirators;  pursuit  to  Guthrie;  failure  of  the 

quest;  "the  range  or  the  pen." 

Relentless  as  the  Corsican  vendettas  were  these 
early  feuds  in  the  Oklahoma  and  Indian  Territory. 
In  the  bad  lands  of  the  Southwest  the  roughest  men 
in  the  country  had  their  dugouts.  They  scattered 
all  over  the  ranges.  They  killed.  Other  killers  in 
the  jury  freed  them.  The  dead  man  was  finished — 
why  bother  the  living  about  it  ?  The  living  had  taken 
their  chance.  That  was  the  Oklahoma  logic  of  justice 
in  the  early  nineties.  The  law  went  with  one  party  or 
the  other.  It  was  a  case  of  grab  the  John  Doe  war- 
rants and  go  after  your  man. 

Houston  and  Love  had  doped  it  up  with  the  mar- 
shals. They  were  out  to  get  us  before  we  had  a 
chance  to  get  them. 

"We're  going  to  El  Reno,"  Frank  said.  "They 
want  blood.  Let  it  be  theirs.  Change  the  brand. 
They've  had  enough  of  ours." 

I  had  not  expected  Frank  to  start  things.  He  had 
an  easy-going  way  that  was  full  of  disdainful  contempt 
for  the  quick  killers  of  the  Houston  and  Love  type. 

"Here's  the  odds,"  he  explained  at  last.  "They're 
going  to  hound  us  off  the  earth.  The  damn'  cowards 
have  been  on  the  dodge  from  us  ever  since  they  fin- 


.WITH  O.  HENRY  55 

ished  Ed.     They've  got  all  the  guns  in  Woodward 
cocked  against  us. 

^'They've  gone  mad.  They've  plastered  the  coun- 
try with  handbills.  They've  got  you  down  for  the 
stickup  of  the  Santa  Fe.  They've  got  a  posse  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  country  on  the  track  of  Al 
Jennings,  the  train-robber.  They'll  sock  you  off  at 
sight!" 

He  dashed  the  words  out — sharp,  vicious.  The 
money  in  my  pocket  suddenly  weighed  heavy  as 
though  it  were  the  $600,000  I  had  dreamed  of. 

"They're  a  few  days  ahead  of  their  guess — it  was 
the  M.  K.  T.  I  stuck."  I  wanted  him  to  know.  I 
didn't  know  how  to  tell  it.  I  tried  to  make  my  voice 
indifferent  and  careless. 

"Pretty  neat,  wasn't  it?"  His  tone  was  as  casual 
as  mine.  "They  never  left  a  footprint  after  them. 
Must  have  been  old  hands  at  the  game." 

"All  but  me,"  I  answered.  "Andy's  gang  are  all 
vets." 

"Damn'  humorous  you're  feehng;  damn'  funny  lay- 
out, ain't  it?"  He  gave  a  whistle  of  impatience  that 
acted  like  a  spur  to  his  horse.  What  my  father  had 
so  readily  accepted  as  true  Frank  would  not  even 
consider. 

Even  when  I  told  him  the  whole  affair  he  could 
scarcely  credit  it.  "You  realty  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,"  he  said.  "You  just  went  along.  It  was  force  of 
circumstances.  Just  a  spectator,  that's  all.  You  had 
no  right  to  take  the  money." 

He  did  not  know  that  less  than  a  fortnight  later  he 
would  himself  jump  into  the  lead  of  the  biggest  stick- 


56  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

up  job  that  had  been  pulled  in  the  territory  for  years. 
His  one  thought  was  to  get  to  El  Reno  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  Democratic  convention,  to  get  Houston 
and  Love  before  they  had  a  chance  to  railroad  us  to 
the  penitentiary  or  to  kill  us. 

'*Once  they  get  us,  they'll  finish  it  proper.  They'll 
take  a  final  swipe  at  the  old  man  and  John." 

We  got  to  El  Reno  in  the  afternoon ;  the  train  was 
to  bring  the  delegates  in  at  10  o'clock  that  night.  We 
kept  under  cover  until  it  was  time  to  go  down  to  the 
station.  There  were  small  groups  standing  around. 
Everybody  in  the  town  knew  me.  I  had  been  county 
attorney  there  for  two  years. 

As  we  came  along  a  dozen  greeted  us  as  friends. 
They  knew  why  we  came.  They  had  seen  the  hand- 
bills. No  one  made  any  attempt  to  gather  in  the 
reward. 

The  train  rolled  in.    Some  one  brushed  past  me. 

"They've  slipped,"  he  said.  "Bill  Tillman  saw  you. 
Tipped'them  off." 

The  bourbons,  old  cowboys,  ex-outlaws,  nesters 
and  a  sprinkling  of  respectable  citizens  got  off  the 
train.  Houston  and  Love  were  not  among  them. 
Two  days  later  I  met  Tob  Oden,  sheriff  of  Wood- 
ward county. 

"They've*^  sneaked  in,"  he  said.  "They're  at  the 
session  now. 

I  didn't  wait  to  get  Frank. 

The  town-hall  was  crowded.  An  old  friend  of 
mine,  Leslie  Ross,  was  acting  as  chairman.  I  stood 
in  the  doorway  waiting  my  chance  to  saunter  in  un- 
observed.   A  fellow  in  the  middle  of  the  room  inter- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  57 

rupted  the  speaker.  Somebody  else  yelled  for  him 
to  shut  up ;  a  man  behind  tried  to  jam  him  back  in  his 
chair — there  was  just  enough  of  a  ruckus. 

I  walked  down  the  aisle,  not  missing  a  face.  I  was 
so  intent  I  did  not  notice  the  breathless  quiet  that 
suddenly  held  the  spectators.  I  glanced  to  the  plat- 
form. Ross  was  standing  with  his  hand  upraised, 
his  eyes  riveted  on  me,  his  face  ashen  like  a  man  on 
the  verge  of  collapse.  His  look  held  the  audience  as 
a  ghost  might  have. 

^'Gentlemen,  a  moment,  keep  your  seats."  He 
started  walking  down  the  steps  and  toward  the  aisle. 
*'Just  a  moment,"  he  repeated,  rushing  up  to  me.  "I 
see  a  dear  friend  of  mine." 

"They're  not  here,  Al,"  he  whispered  to  me.  "I 
swear  to  God,  they  haven't  shown  a  face  around. 
Don't  start  anything.     Calm  down." 

He  was  more  excited  than  I.  He  seemed  to  think 
I  was  ready  to  shoot  up  the  place.  Houston  and 
Love  were  not  there.  They  had  skipped  to  Guthrie. 
Frank  and  I  followed  them. 

We  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  city.  A  man  on 
horseback  rode  up  to  us.  It  was  Ed  Nicks,  United 
States  marshal. 

*'Don't  go  in,  boys,"  he  said.  "They're  laying  for 
you.  They've  got  warrants.  They'll  get  you  on  that 
frameup.  The  trap  is  all  set.  They  know  you're 
coming.  Half  the  men  in  Guthrie  are  armed  against 
you.  They'll  harvest  you  the  moment  you  set  foot 
inside  the  town.'* 

I  had  known  Ed  Nicks  for  10  years.  He  was  on 
the  square. 


58  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

We  didn't  get  Houston  and  Love.  They  got  us. 
They  got  us  to  the  tune  of  a  life  term  in  prison  and 
10  years  in  addition.  We'd  be  there  yet  if  President 
McKinley  had  not  commuted  our  sentence.  They'd 
have  brought  us  back  on  other  charges  if  Theodore 
Roosevelt  had  not  granted  us  a  full  pardon. 

Xicks  rode  with  us  a  mile. 

^'They've  bought  up  the  county,  boys,"  he  said. 
"You  haven't  a  chance.  Take  your  choice — the  range 
or  the  pen." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Frank  turns  outlaw;  the  stickup  of  the  Santa  Fe;  the  threat  of  dynamite; 
crudity  of  bloodshed;  the  lure  of  easy  money. 

Fate  had  more  than  half  a  hand  in  the  chance  that 
turned  Frank  into  a  train-robber. 

Ruffled  and  angry  that  our  plan  had  failed,  he 
turned  on  me  when  Nicks  left.  "I  don't  believe  him," 
he  said.  "We  should  have  gone  on.  We  did  not 
work  it  right.    I'd  like  to  see  their  posse. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  We  stopped  off 
for  a  bite  with  Nigger  Amos.  Amos  was  a  giant  with 
a  face  as  black  as  pitch  and  a  soul  as  white  as  snow. 
He  had  married  the  prettiest  little  mulatto  in  the 
country.  Their  home  was  a  jaunty  yellow  cottage 
that  sat  in  the  midst  of  the  cornfields.  Amos  and 
Collie  were  smiles  from  the  heart  out. 

Whatever  he  had  was  ours.  Collie  was  proud  of 
her  dishes  and  her  cooking.  Amos  sat  on  the  porch 
while  she  fried  chicken  and  waited  on  us.  We  had 
come  in  just  as  the  two  were  about  to  eat,  and  there 
was  Amos,  big,  hard-working  farmer,  slinking  into 
the  background  until  after  the  white  folk  had  their 
dinner. 

"Let's  call  him  in,"  I  said  to  Frank.  He  dropped 
his  fork  in  surprise,  looking  at  me  as  though  I  were 
demented. 

"Why  not?    Here's  me,  a  highwayman — a  train- 


60  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

robber;  there's  Amos,  black  skin,  clean  soul — why 
not?     It's  his  grub  anyway — 

"Ainos,  come  in  and  have  dinner  with  us,"  I  shouted 
to  him.    Poor  Amos  was  more  startled  than  Frank. 

"What,  sah?  Xo,  sah;  no,  sah;  'lowed  I  ain't  for- 
got my  manners." 

Amos'  manners  probably  saved  our  lives. 

*'Yo'  boys  done  been  up  to  mischief?"  The  whites 
of  his  eyes  seemed  ready  to  pop  loose  from  the  black 
when  he  looked  into  the  room  a  second  later.  "What 
you  done?"  he  panted.    "Possemen  a-comin'!" 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  ran  to  our  horses 
and  raced  them  into  the  cornfields. 

"Yo'  boys  git  down  thar,  too." 

'Not  a  moment  too  soon,  for  seven  men  galloped 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  drew  rein  at  the  porch. 
The  innocence  of  Amos  would  have  made  an  angel 
blush.  He  had  seen  no  one.  No,  sah,  no  gemmen 
stopped  at  his  door.  Not  one  of  them  would  dare  to 
ride  down  to  the  cornfield  in  search  of  quarry.  They 
cursed  and  browbeat  him.    Amos  stood  firm. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  Frank's  impulsive, 
open  face  was  blanched  ^\dth  anger.  He  was  like  a 
cornered  beast,  ready  to  strike  at  anything. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  he  demanded  again. 
"Well,  I'll  teli  you.  They've  made  the  Santa  Fe  be- 
lieve you  robbed  them.  The  Santa  Fe  is  behind 
this." 

It  was  probably  a  wild  supposition.  It  seemed 
credible  to  us.  Houston  was  attorney  for  the  rail- 
road. From  the  time  we  left  the  negro's  cottage  until 
we  arrived  at  the  Harliss  ranch  a  few  days  later  the 


WITH  O.  HEXRY  61 

posse  was  on  our  trail.  It  didn't  worry  me  much. 
There  was  a  tang  of  adventure  in  it  that  appealed. 
To  Frank  it  was  hell's  torment.  He  didn't  like 
being  hunted.  He  seemed  to  feel  there  was  all  the 
shame  of  cowardice  in  the  attempt  to  escape.  It 
lashed  him  into  a  seething  rage  that  made  him  want 
to  turn  and  strike  back  at  his  pursuers. 

They  had  been  to  the  ranch  house  in  our  absence. 
They  had  left  their  mark  in  a  few  bullet  holes  in  the 
walls. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Frank  asked.  I  was 
neither  angry  nor  unhappy.  Just  then,  outlawTy  as 
a  business  suited  me. 

"Finish  up  the  deal  Jake  and  I  were  planning 
when  you  came,"  I  said. 

"I'm  with  you." 

And  from  that  moment  until  the  night  of  the  hold- 
up he  was  like  a  man  possessed.  He  had  the  resolu- 
tion of  an  army  behind  him.  Almost  single-handed 
he  pulled  off  the  stickup  of  the  Santa  Fe.  He  had 
worked  one  vacation  on  the  railroad.  He  Imew  all 
about  engines,  he  said,  because  he  had  ridden  the 
goat  around  the  yards.  He  insisted  on  bringing  up 
the  train. 

The  Santa  Fe  stopped  at  Berwyn  in  the  Chickasha. 
Frank  and  Bill  were  to  get  on  the  blind  baggage  as 
she  drew  out,  climb  over  the  coal  tender  and  get  the 
engineer  and  fireman.  They  were  to  bring  the  train 
about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  into  the  timber  where 
Jake,  Little  Dick  and  I  were  waiting.  We  would 
finish  the  transaction. 

There  was  nothmg^  spectacular  about  the  job  ex- 


62  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

cept  the  haul.  It  came  off  just  as  we  planned  it.  A 
six-shooter  is  a  commander  that  few  men  dare  to 
question.  When  Frank  jabbed  it  in  the  neck  of  the 
engineer  he  was  master  of  the  train.  I  stood  on  the 
ti:ack  and  waved  my  hand.  Frank  gave  the  order. 
The  engineer  stopped. 

Little  Dick  and  Jake  ran  up  and  down  quieting 
the  passengers  with  a  big  show  of  gun  fire  and  much 
shattered  glass.  Few  men  are  ever  killed  in  a  holdup. 
Veterans  consider  bloodshed  bad  form.  Whenever 
I  read  of  a  conductor  or  messenger  fatally  shot  I 
know  that  a  new  hand  is  in  the  game.  It's  easy  to 
buffalo  the  crew.  The  passengers  are  a  cinch  to 
handle.  They  know  the  holdup  has  the  drop  on  them. 
Nobody  wants  to  take  the  chance  of  starting  things. 
If  they  ever  did  break  loose  at  the  same  moment 
there'd  be  a  stampede  that  would  turn  the  odds  the 
other  way.    I  never  saw  one. 

Frank  took  care  of  the  engineer  and  the  fireman. 
Bill  and  I  went  for  the  express. 

"Open  up!"  I  yelled. 

No  answer. 

"Bill,  take  some  dynamite,  and  put  it  on  the  trucks 
and  blow  the  damn'  tightwad  out." 

"No,  no!  Don't  do  it!  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen. 
I'll  open."  The  messenger  pushed  the  door  to,  bow- 
ing and  shaking,  and  invited  us  in  as  though  it  were 
his  private  den  and  we  were  about  to  have  a  finger 
and  a  smoke.  The  courtesy  of  express  messengers 
at  such  times  is  a  bit  pathetic.  This  one  had  either 
thrown  the  key  of  the  safe  away  or  he  had  never 
had  it. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  63 

The  boodle  was  in  a  regular  Wells  Fargo  steel 
chest.  The  lid  closed  over  the  top.  I  took  a  stick 
of  dynamite,  put  it  in  the  crack  just  under  the  lock. 

The  explosion  sprung  the  sides  and  smashed  the 
lock.  There  was  $25,000  inside  and  not  a  note  in- 
jured. We  each  drew  $5,000  from  that  evening's 
pleasure. 

I  told  the  story  to  a  quiet,  homebody  sort  of  woman 
once.  Her  eyes  lit  up  with  amazement  and  the  keen- 
est delight.  That  look  gave  me  a  large  gob  of  joy. 
She  wasn't  so  different  from  me,  although  she  had 
never  taken  a  cent  in  her  life. 

"You  looked  as  if  you  wouldn't  mind  running  your 
hand  into  a  chest  like  that,"  I  said. 

"It's  all  in  the  point  of  view,  at  that,"  she  answered. 

Another  time,  a  skilled  musician,  a  respected  citi- 
zen, the  father  of  three  chilldren,  took  me  aside. 

"On  the  level,  did  you  get  a  rakeoff  like  that?"  he 
wanted  to  know.  "Well,  what  would  it  be  worth  to 
teach  me  the  game?"  I  thought  he  was  jesting  until 
he  had  come  three  different  times  with  the  same 
proposition. 

I  didn't  teach  him.  It  is  a  game  that  always  ends 
in  a  loss.  The  money  goes.  Happiness  goes.  Life 
goes. 

Frank  was  the  first  to  learn  it.  He  turned  the 
trick  that  sent  us  sneaking  into  Honduras  in  fuU 
dress  suits  and  battered  up  hats. 

He  fell  in  love. 


CHAPTER  X 

In  the  Panhandle;  a  starving  hostess;  theft  and  chivalry;  $35,000  clear; 
dawning  of  romance;  tvvo  plucky  girls;  the  escape  in  the  tramp. 

We  had  been  in  the  game  nearly  two  years.  Two 
hundred  and  some  odd  thousands  had  passed  through 
our  hands.    It  had  passed  quickly. 

Our  partnership  was  capitalized  at  $10,000  one 
particular  evening  when  we  struck  across  the  pan- 
handle of  Texas  after  a  hurried  departure  from  Xew 
Mexico. 

We  had  gone  there  on  the  trail  of  Houston  and 
Love.  We  had  never  given  up  the  hope  of  evening 
up  our  score  with  them.  But  by  that  time  our  busi- 
ness connections  had  become  generally  known.  It 
became  increasingly  difficult  to  gain  an  entree  into 
any  law-abiding  city.  Marshals  in  New  Mexico 
fogged  us  a  cargo  of  lead  in  the  streets  as  a  sort  of 
salvo  of  welcome.  We  let  it  go  as  a  farewell  tribute 
and  made  a  quick  getaway. 

The  panhandle  of  Texas  was  forgotten  of  God 
Himself  in  those  days.  It  was  the  bleakest,  poorest, 
loneliest  tongue  of  mesquite  grass  in  all  the  South- 
west. Deserted  dugouts  with  their  dingy  chimneys 
sticking  above  the  ground  marked  the  spots  where 
men  had  settled,  struggled  and  failed. 

The  lobo  wolves  hid  in  the  abandoned  adobe  holes. 
At  the  sound  of  the  horses  they  would  leap  to  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  65 

grass,  their  eyes,  timid  and  frightened  as  a  coyote's — 
one  lope  and  they  were  gone.  There  was  a  breath  of 
fear  and  desertion  and  unbearable  quiet  about  those 
miles  of  prairie.     It  seemed  isolated  like  an  outlaw. 

Perhaps  that  ride  had  something  to  do  with  quick- 
ening Frank's  susceptibilities.  For  when  we  saw  a 
ripple  of  smoke  coming  from  a  chimney  about  half 
a  mile  distant  it  seemed  like  a  flag  of  life  waving  us 
back  from  a  .graveyard.  Both  of  us  laughed  and 
spurred  our  horses  to  the  dugout. 

As  we  rode  up  a  girl  and  a  little  fellow  about  five 
came  out  to  meet  us,  as  though  they  had  expected  our 
arrival.  She  v/as  a  tall,  slender,  bright-eyed  bit  of 
caHco,  with  a  kind  of  pathetic  smile  that  went  straight 
to  Frank's  heart.  Her  husband  had  gone  to  town  a 
week  before  to  buy  the  dinner,  she  said.  He  had  for- 
gotten to  return. 

Frank  and  I  had  not  eaten  for  two  days.  Neither 
had  the  lady  nor  her  little  son.  It  was  12  miles  to 
the  nearest  neighbor.  I  made  the  trip  and  brought 
back  grub  for  the  family.  Frank  and  the  girl  were 
talking  like  old  chums,  the  kid  sitting  on  that  train- 
robber's  lap  and  running  his  small  fingers  over 
Frank's  face  in  a  trusting  way  that  made  my  brother 
foohsh  with  pride  and  happiness. 

The  lady  cooked  up  the  tastiest  meal  we  had  eaten 
in  many  months.  She  served  with  the  grace  of  a 
duchess.  Frank  sat  back  and  watched  her,  his  eyes 
hghting  with  pleasure  at  every  trifling  word  she  said. 
This  glimpse  of  home  life  was  the  first  real  adventure 
we  had  known  in  two  years. 

"The  banker  down  there  skinned  that  poor  little 


66  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

mite  out  of  $5,000,"  Frank  whispered  to  me. 
^'Tricked  her  into  signing  some  papers  and  then  fore- 
closed on  the  mortgage.  I'm  going  after  the  damn' 
thief  and  bring  the  boodle  back  to  her." 

The  bank  was  in  the  little  desert  town  in  West 
Texas,  w^here  the  husband  had  gone  for  provisions. 
We  arrived  there  just  before  closing  time  the  next 
day.  With  the  help  of  our  six-shooters  in  lieu  of  a 
checkbook  we  induced  the  cashier  to  turn  over  the 
lady's  $5,000  and  about  $35,000  additional. 

Idlers  standing  in  the  street,  marshals  and  the 
sheriff  made  our  exit  difficult.  They  sent  a  hail  of 
lead  after  us  to  coax  the  money  back. 

It  would  have  been  a  brilliant  getaway  but  for  the 
lady's  husband.  He  had  been  in  town  when  the  rob- 
bery was  puUed  off.  As  soon  as  he  came  to  the  dug- 
out he  sized  us  up  and  tipped  off  the  posse.  In  the 
shooting  that  followed  he  was  killed.  We  escaped, 
returned  later  and  took  the  lady  and  her  little  fellow 
with  us. 

It  was  a  long  trip  across  Oklahoma  and  the  Indian 
Territory  into  Arkansas.  When  it  was  over  Frank 
was  finished  as  far  as  our  former  business  was  con- 
cerned. He  was  in  love  with  the  girl.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  For  the  first  time  he  sat  down 
to  figure  out  the  reasons  that  had  made  him  turn 
bandit.  He  could  not  find  any.  He  was  full  of  self- 
reproach.  He  kept  wondering  why  he  had  ever  gone 
into  the  game  and  figuring  out  how  long  it  would  take 
him  to  get  back. 

"I'm  going  to  quit."    It  did  not  surprise  me. 

"They  won't  let  you  quit,"  I  warned  him. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  67 

**Bunk,"  he  answered;  * 'nothing  can  stop  me." 

He  was  full  of  plans.  We  would  go  to  New  Or- 
leans and  then  to  the  South  Sea  Islands.  We  had 
$35,000.  It  seemed  enough  to  help  us  in  jarring 
loose.    I  was  ready  for  the  adventure. 

We  did  not  know  that  at  that  very  moment  we  had 
been  tracked  from  West  Texas  on  the  bank-robbery 
almost  to  Fort  Smith. 

As  soon  as  we  stepped  off  the  Mississippi  packet  to 
the  levee  in  New  Orleans  a  new  hfe  seemed  to  open 
for  us.  I  felt  free  and  cheerful  as  a  good  cow  that 
has  peacefully  followed  the  herd  and  chewed  in  peace 
her  daily  cud.  Our  resolution  to  quit  acted  as  a  sort 
of  absolution.  We  felt  that  we  had  cut  loose  from 
our  past  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

Every  incident  in  those  first  days  enhanced  this 
false  sense  of  security.  A  few  hours  after  we  arrived 
I  was  browsing  about  the  French  quarter.  A  man 
passed,  turned  abruptly,  came  back  and  grabbed  my 
arm.  I  thought  I  was  caught.  I  jerked  my  six 
shooter  and  jammed  it  into  his  stomach,  full  cocked. 

"God,  Forney,  don't  you  know  me?" 

When  I  saw  little  Ed ,  my  old  pal  at  the  Vir- 
ginia ^lihtary  Academy,  shaking  my  hand,  I'd  have 
given  the  soul  out  of  my  body  to  have  kept  that  forty- 
five  out  of  sight.  It  was  like  a  screaming  voice  telling 
him  my  brand,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  daunt  him. 

Ed  was  a  sort  of  hero-worshiper.  He  liked  me  at 
college  because  I  had  been  a  cowpuncher.  For  much 
the  same  reason,  outlawry  seemed  to  him  unusual 
and  daring.  With  all  the  hospitality  of  the  South,  he 
invited  me  to  visit  his  people. 


68  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

They  were  wealthy.  His  father  was  a  high  official 
in  Louisiana.  While  in  liis  home  we  were  almost 
certain  of  escape  from  detection.  We  went,  Frank 
and  I,  and  for  weeks  we  lived  in  a  fool's  paradise. 
Life  seemed  an  everlasting  picture.  We  were  home- 
hungry,  and  this  visit  was  in  the  nature  of  a  glorious 
new  kind  of  spree — a  sort  of  social  intoxication. 

Ed  had  a  sister,  Margaret.  She  was  small  and 
whimsical  and  black-eyed.  I  began  to  understand 
Frank's  symptoms. 

Summer  in  the  South  has  many  enchantments.  I 
wanted  to  make  this  garden  party  perennial.  Frank 
and  I  leased  a  steam  yacht  for  a  prolonged  cruise  in 
the  gulf.  Margaret,  her  mother,  two  cousins,  Frank, 
Ed  and  I  made  up  the  party.  There  was  a  fine  old 
family  at  Galveston,  friends  of  Ed's  family.  We 
dropped  anchor  for  a  little  visit  with  them. 

And  straightway  they  returned  the  compliment 
with  a  ball  at  the  IBeach  Hotel.  Of  all  my  Hfe  that 
night  was  the  happiest.  Whatever  Margaret  saw  in 
me  I  don't  know.  We  were  sitting  in  an  alcove. 
Cape  jasmines  are  fragrant  in  Galveston  and  the 
moon  hung  out  like  a  big  pearl.  Music,  soft  and 
gentle,  twined  in  with  our  thoughts.  That  kind  of  a 
night. 

I  hadn't  heard  any  one  come.  A  finger  tapped 
me  on  the  shoulder.     I  looked  up. 

"Step  outside  a  moment,"  the  man  said. 

"Take  a  look  at  me!  Now,  do  you  remember  who 
I  am?  Well,  I  haven't  forgotten  what  you  did  for 
me  in  El  Reno.    I'm  going  to  square  the  debt." 

The  man  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  my  face.    I 


WITH  O.  HENRY  69 

knew  him  at  once.  I  had  saved  him  from  the  peniten- 
tiary when  I  was  county  attorney  at  El  Reno.  He 
was  charged  with  the  embezzlement  of  Wells  Fargo 
funds.  I  was  prosecutor.  The  man  probably  was 
guilty,  but  the  evidence  was  entirely  insufficient.  The 
jury  was  prejudiced.  I  asked  for  a  dismissal  because 
it  was  the  only  square  thing  to  do. 

That  was  one  loaf  of  bread  on  the  waters  that 
came  back  as  cake. 

"I'm  with  Wells  Fargo,"  he  whispered.  "We 
have  a  bunch  of  dicks  on  the  job.  They  know  Al 
Jennings  is  in  tliis  hotel.  The  place  is  surrounded, 
I'm  the  only  one  who  knows  you  by  sight.  Do  the 
best  you  can." 

I  had  not  said  a  word.  My  heart  was  pounding  like 
a  triphammer.  If  I  ever  felt  like  pitying  myself  it 
was  at  that  moment.  The  ignominy  of  it — the  dis- 
grace before  these  friends  who  honored  us.  I  felt 
weak  and  limp  all  over.    I  went  back  to  the  alcove. 

"What  did  he  want,  Al?"  Margaret  asked,  her  hps 
white  and  drawn.  Before  I  could  protest,  she  hur- 
ried on.  "I  know  you  are  Al  Jennings.  I  knew  it 
all  along.  I  knew  you  from  the  picture  Ed  has. 
What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Nothing.    They  won't  get  a  chance." 

The  blunt  way  seemed  best.  I  told  her  that  Will- 
iams (that  was  the  name  Frank  had  taken;  I  was 
Edwards)  was  my  brother;  that  we  were  wanted  for 
a  bank-robbery  in  West  Texas ;  that  our  only  chance 
was  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  She  took  it  quiet  and 
shrewd,  without  a  whimper. 

Frank  was  dancing  with  Margaret's  cousin.    We 


70  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

waltzed  over  to  them.     I  bumped  against  Frank. 

"Look  out,"  I  warned.    It  was  an  old  signal. 

He  followed  us  into  the  alcove. 

"We're  surrounded." 

"Here?     Oh,  hell!" 

Gardens  that  blossomed  to  the  water's  edge  ran 
in  terraces  about  the  hotel.  We  made  our  plan.  To- 
gether, the  four  of  us  sauntered  into  a  rose  arbor, 
laughing  and  talking  as  though  our  hearts  were  as 
light  as  our  tongues.  The  girls  were  as  game  as 
veterans.  They  challenged  us  to  a  race.  One  light- 
ning sprint  and  we  were  at  the  beach,  the  girls  lag- 
ging far  behind. 

Somebody's  first-class  dory  helped  our  escape.  It 
was  lying  there  \^ath  the  oars  set.  Muscles  of  iron 
sent  that  little  yawl  shooting  across  the  water.  The 
gods  of  chance,  $32,000  and  our  six-shooters  were 
with  us.  We  didn't  pause  for  breath  until  we 
chopped  against  an  old  tramp  banana  steamer.  We 
clambered  up  the  sides  like  aboriginal  monkeys. 

The  captain  was  a  smuggler  of  Three  Star  Hen- 
nessey brandy.  When  he  saw  two  dudes  in  full-dress 
suits,  silk  hats  and  white  kid  gloves  tumbhng  over 
his  railing,  he  thought  we  were  drunker  than  himself. 
He  wabbled  up  to  us,  his  blowsy  cheeks  puffed  out 
like  balloons,  his  pig  eyes  squinting  and  his  addled 
voice  making  a  vahant  attempt  to  order  us  off. 

Put  out  tonight.  No,  sirs.  Be  damned  and  a 
whole  lot  more  if  he  would.  He  didn't  have  liis 
papers.  He  grew  weepy  over  it.  The  government 
wouldn't  permit  it. 

When  we  slipped  him  $1,500,  he  changed  his  tune. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  meeting  with  O.  Henry  in  Honduras;  the  celebration  of  the  Fourth; 
quelling  a  revolution;  a  new  flight;  the  girl  on  the  beach. 

A  few  hours  later,  Frank  and  I  and  our  good 
friend,  the  smuggler,  were  plowing  ahead  under  full 
steam  for  South  America.  I  don't  know  to  this  day- 
how  long  the  trip  lasted.  Tliree  Star  Hennessey  was 
rousing  good  company.  We  were  so  full  of  him,  we 
didn't  bother  to  find  our  bearings  until  one  day  the 
captain  discovered  his  boat  was  out  of  water.  At 
about  the  same  time  I  began  to  thirst  for  a  new  drink. 
My  throat  was  all  but  gutted  with  the  smuggler's 
fiery  brandy. 

When  the  captain  ordered  his  men  into  the  yawl 
to  bring  back  water  in  kegs,  I  went  with  them. 
About  200  yards  from  shore  the  water  got  so  shal- 
low we  had  to  wade  in. 

My  full-dress  suit  had  lost  one  of  its  tails  by  this 
time;  the  white  shirt  was  embossed  with  little  hunks 
of  dirt  and  splashes  of  whiskey.  Only  the  rim  of  my 
stovepipe  hat  was  left,  an  uncombed  red  mat  stuck 
out  through  the  ventilator. 

With  the  water  squashing  about  in  my  patent 
leather  shoes,  I  was  a  queer  looking  pigwidgeon  to 
strike  up  an  acquaintance  with  the  greatest  men  in 
Trojillo. 


72  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

I  wanted  a  drink  and  I  wanted  it  quick.  My  tongue 
was  hot  and  my  feet  were  cold.  I  didn't  have  time  to 
waste  trying  to  make  the  natives  of  Honduras  under- 
stand my  perplexity.  I  caught  sight  of  the  American 
flag.  In  that  parched  and  unslaked  moment  it  meant 
the  joy  of  freedom — liberty  of  the  throat  and  the 
tongue. 

Under  the  ripple  of  that  flag  I  felt  certain  that  I 
would  find  some  kindred  soul.    I  did. 

On  the  porch  of  the  squat  wooden  bungalow  that 
housed  the  American  consulate,  sat  an  ample,  digni- 
fied figure  in  immaculate  white  ducks.  He  had  a  large, 
nobly-set  head,  with  hair  the  color  of  new  rope  and  a 
full,  straight-glancing  gray  eye  that  noted  without  a 
sparkle  of  laughter  every  detail  of  my  ludicrous 
makeup. 

He  was  already  serene  and  comfortably  situated 
with  liquor,  but  he  had  about  him  an  attitude  of  calm 
distinction.  A  rather  pompous  dignitary,  he  seemed 
to  me,  sitting  there  as  though  he  owned  the  place. 
This,  I  thought,  is  indeed  a  man  worthy  to  be  the 
American  consul. 

I  felt  hke  a  newsboy  accosting  a  millionaire. 

*'Say,  mister,"  I  asked,  "could  you  lead  me  to  a 
drink?  Burnt  out  on  Three  Star  Hennessey.  Got  a 
different  brand?" 

*'We  have  a  lotion  here  that  is  guaranteed  to  up- 
lift the  spirit,"  he  answered  in  a  hushed  undertone 
that  seemed  to  charge  his  words  with  vast  importance. 

"Are  you  the  American  consul?"  I  ventured  also 
in  a  whisper. 

"No,  just  anchored  here,"  he  smuggled  back  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  73 

information.  Then  his  cool  glance  rested  on  the 
ragged  edge  of  my  coat. 

"What  caused  you  'co  leave  in  such  a  hurry?'*  he 
asked.  ^ 

"Perhaps  the  same  reason  that  routed  yourself," 
I  retorted. 

The  merest  flicker  of  a  smile  touched  his  lips.  He 
got  up,  took  my  arm  and  together  we  helped  each 
ether  down  the  street,  that  was  narrow  as  a  burrow 
path,  to  the  nearest  cantina. 

This  was  my  first  jaunt  with  William  Sydney 
Porter.  Together,  we  struck  out  on  a  long  road  that 
lost  itself,  for  many  years,  in  a  dark  tunnel.  When 
the  path  broadened  out  again,  it  was  the  world's  high- 
way. The  man  at  my  side  was  no  longer  Bill  Porter, 
the  fugitive,  the  ex-convict.  He  was  O.  Henry,  the 
greatest  of  America's  short-story  writers. 

But,  to  me,  in  every  detour  of  the  road,  he  remained 
the  same  calm,  whimsical  Bill — baffling,  reserved, 
loveable — who  had  led  me  to  the  Mexican  doggery 
for  my  fii'st  drink  in  the  paradise  of  fugitives. 

In  the  dingy  adobe  estanca  I  found  the  solution 
guaranteed  to  uplift  the  spirit.  But  it  was  not  in 
the  sweet,  heavy  concoction  the  dignitary  from  the 
consulate  called  for.  It  was  in  the  droll,  unsmiling 
w^aggery  of  the  conversation  that  came  forth  in 
measured,  hesitant,  excessively  pure  English  as  we 
leaned  on  the  rickety  wooden  table  and  drank  v/ithout 
counting  our  glasses. 

Despite  the  air  of  distinction  that  was  with  him  as 
a  sort  of  birthmark,  I  felt  at  once  drawn  to  him.  I 
began  to  unfold  my  plan  of  settling  in  the  country. 


74  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"This  is  an  admirable  location  for  a  man  who 
doesn't  want  much  to  do,"  he  said. 

"What  line  are  you  interested  in?"  I  asked. 

"I  haven't  given  the  matter  much  thought,"  he 
said.    'T  entertain  the  newcomers." 

"You  must  be  a  hell  of  a  busy  man,"  I  suggested. 

"You're  the  first  since  my  arrival." 

He  leaned  over.  "You  probably  wonder  who  I 
am  and  why  I'm  here?" 

In  Honduras  every  American  is  a  subject  of  sus- 
picion. 

"Oh,  God,  no,"  I  put  in  quickly.  "In  my  country 
nobody  asks  a  man's  name  or  his  past.  You're  all 
right." 

"Thanks,  colonel."  He  drew  in  his  upper  lip  in  a 
manner  that  was  characteristic.  "You  might  call  me 
Bill.    I  think  I  would  like  that." 

Several  hours  we  sat  there,  an  ex-highwayman  in 
a  tattered  dress  suit  and  a  fugitive  in  spotless  white 
ducks,  together  planning  a  suitable  investment  for 
my  stolen  funds.  Porter  suggested  a  cocoanut 
plantation,  a  campaign  for  the  presidency,  an  indigo 
concession. 

There  was  something  so  fascinating  in  the  odd  sur- 
prise lurking  in  his  remarks,  I  found  myself  waiting 
for  his  conclusions.  I  forgot  that  the  Helena  had 
but  stopped  for  water  and  might  even  now  be  well 
cleared  of  the  shores  of  Honduras. 

The  mate  beckoned  to  me.  I  nearly  knocked  the 
table  over  in  my  haste. 

"Just  a  moment."  Porter's  unruffled  undertone 
held  me  as  though  he  bad  put  a  restraining  hand  on 


WITH  O.  HENRY  75 

my  arm.  "You  are  an  American.  Have  you  con- 
sidered the  celebration  of  the  glorious  Fourth?" 

"Fourth,  what?" 

"The  Fourth  of  July,  colonel,  which  falls  at  one 
minute  past  12  tonight.  Let  us  have  some  festivity 
on  the  occasion." 

Every  one  who  knows  O.  Henry  knows  how  three 
loyal  prodigals  celebrated  the  nation's  birth.  He  has 
made  it  memorable  in  his  story,  "The  Fourth  in 
Salvador."  What  he  couldn't  remember  he  fabri- 
cated, but  many  of  the  details,  with  the  exception  of 
the  ice  plant  and  the  $1,000  bonus  from  the  govern- 
ment, happened  just  as  he  has  narrated  them. 

Somehow  we  got  Frank  off  the  boat.  Long  after 
midnight  Porter  took  us  to  the  consulate,  where  he 
made  his  home.  He  had  a  little  cot  in  one  corner  of 
the  main  room.  He  took  the  blankets  from  it  and 
spread  them  on  the  floor.  The  three  of  us  stretched 
out. 

About  11  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  celebration  of 
the  Fourth  opened.  Porter,  Frank,  two  Irislimen 
who  owned  an  indigo  concession,  the  American  con- 
sul, myself  and  a  negro,  brought  along  for  the  sake 
of  democracy,  made  up  the  party.  For  a  fitting  ob- 
servance of  America's  triumph  Porter  insisted  that 
the  English  consul  join  us.  We  put  the  matter  be- 
fore his  majesty's  subject.  He  agreed  that  it  would 
be  a  "devil  of  a  fine  joke." 

There  were  but  four  life-size  houses  in  Trojillo. 
Under  the. shade  of  the  governor's  mansion  we  stood 
and  sang  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner."  Out  of 
deference  to  our  guest  Porter  suggested  that  we 


76  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

render  one  verse  of  "God  Save  the  King."  The 
Britisher  objected.  "Don't  make  damn'  nonsense 
of  this  occasion,"  he  demmred. 

We  started  out  to  shoot  up  the  town  in  true  Texas 
style,  prepared  to  wind  up  the  fireworks  with  a  bar- 
becued goat  in  the  lemon  grove  near  the  beach.  We 
never  got  to  the  barbecue.    A  revolution  intervened. 

We  had  shot  up  two  estancas.  Glass  was  shattered 
everywhere.  The  Carib  barkeepers  had  fled.  We 
were  helping  ourselves  and  scrupulously  laying  the 
money  for  every  drink  on  the  counter. 

Suddenly  a  shot  was  fired  from  the  outside.  Porter 
had  just  finished  smashing  up  a  mirror  with  a  bottle. 
He  turned  with  a  quiet  that  was  as  ludicrous  as  it  was 
inimitable. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "the  natives  are  trying  to 
steal  our  copyrighted  Fourth." 

We  made  a  clattering  dash  for  the  street,  shooting 
wildly  into  the  air.  A  little  man  in  a  flaming  red 
coat  came  galloping  by.  About  30  barefoot  horse- 
men, all  in  red  coats  and  very  Httle  else,  tore  up  a 
mighty  cloud  of  dust  in  his  wake.  They  fibred  off 
their  old-fashioned  muzzle  loaders  as  if  they  really 
meant  murder. 

As  the  leader  whirled  past  on  his  diminutive  gray 
pony  Porter  caught  him  by  the  waist  and  dragged 
him  off.  I  sprang  into  the  saddle,  shooting  and  yell- 
ing like  a  maniac. 

"Reinforcements,  reinforcements  I"  Like  a  song 
of  victory  the  shout  thundered  from  the  rear.  I 
don't  know  where  or  how  I  rode. 

But  the  next  day  the  governor  and  two  of  his  httle 


WITH  O.  HENRY  77 

tan  Caribs  called  at  the  consulate.  He  wished  to 
thank  the  American  patriots  for  the  magnificent  aid 
they  had  given  in  quelling  the  revolution.  They  had 
saved  the  republic!  With  a  lordly  air  he  offered  us 
the  cocoanut  plantations  that  grew  wild  all  over  the 
country.  The  incredible  daring  of  the  American 
riders  had  saved  the  nation ! 

We  didn't  even  know  there  had  been  a  revolution. 
And  we  didn't  know  whose  side  we  had  taken.  Porter 
rose  to  the  occasion. 

"We  appreciate  the  government's  attitude,"  he 
answered,  with  a  touch  of  patronage  in  his  tone.  "So 
often  patriots  are  forgotten." 

It  seems  that  in  that  moment  when  we  rushed 
wildly  to  the  door  of  the  cantina  we  changed  the  tide 
of  battle.  The  government  troops  were  chasing  the 
rebels  and  the  rebels  were  winning.  We  had  ralhed 
the  royal  army  and  led  it  to  victory.  It  was  a  blood- 
less battle. 

Our  triumph  was  short-lived.  The  government 
and  the  rebel  leaders  patched  up  their  differences. 
The  rebel  general  demanded  amends  for  the  insult 
to  his  troops.  He  demanded  the  lives  of  the  outsiders 
who  had  impudently  ended  a  revolution  before  it  had 
decently  begun. 

The  American  consul  advised  a  hasty  and  instant 
departure. 

"Is  there  no  protection  in  this  realm  for  an  Ameri- 
can citizen?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  Porter  declared.  "The  State  Department 
will  refer  our  case  to  [Mark  Hanna.  He  will  investi- 
gate our  party  affiliations.    It  wiU  then  be  referred 


78  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

to  the  bureau  of  immigration,  and  by  that  time  we 
will  all  be  shot." 

Flight  was  our  only  recourse.  We  started  toward 
the  beach.  As  we  ran  a  little  Carib  girl  about  15 
came  scooting  out  from  a  hedge  and  hurled  herself 
against  me.  She  was  crying  and  talking  and  clutch- 
ing my  arm.  I  couldn't  understand  a  word  she  was 
saying.    Porter  tried  a  little  Spanish. 

"The  little  girl  is  in  great  distress,"  he  said.  "She 
is  saying  something  entirely  beyond  my  comprehen- 
sion of  the  Spanish  language.  I  gather  that  she 
wants  to  be  one  of  our  party." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  of  her  mouth  when  a 
burly  fellow  much  bigger  than  the  natives  broke 
through  the  hedge  and  grabbed  the  tiny  creature  by 
the  hair.  It  interrupted  our  conversation.  I  landed 
him  a  smash  on  the  head  with  my  45  gun. 

Just  then  a  signal  rang  out.  It  was  the  caU  to 
arms.     The  army  was  after  us. 

Porter,  Frank  and  I,  with  the  Httle  maid  at  our 
heels,  made  for  the  beach.  Porter  stopped  a  moment 
to  ask  the  little  Carib,  in  the  gravest  English,  her 
pardon  for  his  haste.  He  had  a  most  pressing  en- 
gagement, he  said,  some  2,000  miles  away.  She  was 
not  satisfied  and  stood  shrieking  on  the  beach  while 
we  rowed  out  to  the  Helena, 

It  bothered  Porter.  Years  afterward,  when  we 
were  together  in  New  York,  he  recalled  the  incident. 

"Remember  that  little  strip  of  brown  muslin  that 
fluttered  down  the  street  after  us  in  Trojillo?  I 
wondered  what  she  was  saying." 

He  didn't  like  "unfinished  stories." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  T9 

Bill,  the  newfound  friend,  had  thrown  in  his  lot 
with  us.  He  didn't  have  a  cent  in  the  world.  He 
didn't  know  where  we  were  going  or  who  w^e  were. 

''What  is  your  destination?"  he  asked  quietly,  as 
the  Helena  steamed  up. 

"I  left  America  to  avoid  my  destination,"  I  told 
him. 

"How  far  can  you  go?" 

"As  far  as  $30,000  will  take  us." 

It  took  us  farther  than  we  reckoned. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Voyaging  at  leisure;  tke  grand  ball  in  Mexico  City;  O.  Henry's  gallantry; 
the  don's  rage;   O.  Henry  saved  from  the  Spaniard's  knife. 

Like  aimless  drifters  in  a  boat  that  has  neither 
rudder  nor  compass,  we  started  on  that  torn*  of  in- 
vestigation. We  planned  to  loll  along,  stopping  as 
we  would,  looking  for  a  pleasant  soil  in  which  to  plant 
ourselves.  But  we  made  not  the  shghtest  effort  to 
map  our  course. 

And  then  suddenly,  across  that  idle  way,  there 
rippled  a  httle  stick  of  chance,  an  incident  so  trivial 
and  insignificant  we  scarcely  noticed  it.  In  a  moment 
it  had  broken  the  waters  and  our  boat  was  all  but 
wrecked  by  the  unconsidered  wisp.  Bill  Porter  nearly 
lost  his  hfe  for  a  smile! 

The  captain  of  the  Helena  was  at  our  service.  We 
stopped  at  Buenos  Aires  and  rode  out  through  the 
pampas  country,  but  it  did  not  attract  us. 

Peru  was  no  more  alluring.  We  were  looking  for 
big  game.  And  the  mighty  pastime  of  this  realm  was 
the  shooting  of  the  Asiatic  rats  that  stampeded  the 
wharves. 

For  no  particular  reason,  two  of  us  being  acknowl- 
edged fugitives  and  the  third  a  somewhat  mysterious 
soldier  of  fortune,  we  stopped  off  at  Mexico  City.  We 
knew  Porter  only  as  Bill.  I  had  told  him  the  main 
facts  of  my  life.    He  did  not  return  the  confidence 


WITH  O.  HENRY  81 

and  we  did  not  seek  it.  Neither  Frank  nor  I  placed 
liim  in  our  own  class.  He  was  secretive,  but  we  did 
not  attribute  the  trait  to  any  sinister  cause.  With 
the  romance  of  the  cowpuncher  I  figured  that  this 
fine,  companionable  fellow  was  troubled  with  an  un- 
happy love  affair. 

We  had  loafed  along,  deliberately  dodging  issues. 
At  the  Hotel  De  Republic  fate  turned  the  little 
trick  that  compelled  us  to  change  our  course. 

I  was  sitting  ui  the  lobby  waiting  for  Frank  and 
Porter.  Something  hke  a  clutch  on  my  arm  struck 
through  my  listlessness.  It  was  a  breath-taking  mo- 
ment. I  felt  a  presence  near.  I  feared  to  look  up. 
Then  a  gigantic  hand  reached  down  to  me.  Jumbo 
Rector,  idol  of  cadet  days  in  Virginia,  had  picked  me 
to  my  feet. 

Rector  was  six  feet  six.  I  reached  a  bit  above  his 
elbow.  We  had  been  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  in 
every  devilment  pulled  in  college.  If  there  was  one 
man  on  the  earth  I  was  glad  to  see  at  that  moment  it 
was  this  buoyant,  healthy-hearted  Samson. 

Rector  had  built  the  Isthmian  railroad.  He  had 
a  palace  of  white  stone  and  he  brought  us  bag  and 
baggage  to  his  hacienda.  That  night  I  told  him  the 
things  that  had  happened  in  the  16  years  since  we 
parted. 

"Who  is  this  friend  of  yours,  this  Bill?"  he  asked 
me  later.  "Are  you  sure  of  him?  He  looks  to  me 
like  a  detective." 

"I  don't  like  your  friend  Rector,"  Porter  confided 
the  same  night.  "He  has  a  most  unpleasant  way  of 
scrutinizing  one." 


82  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Not  many  days  later  both  Porter  and  I  had  proof 
of  Rector's  worth.  The  antipathy  between  the  two 
was  but  superficial.  There  was  to  be  a  grand  ball 
at  the  hotel.  All  the  notables,  Porfirio  Diaz,  the 
cabinet,  the  senoritas  and  the  dons  were  to  be  present. 
Rector  had  us  all  invited. 

We  went  through  preparations  as  elaborate  as  a 
debutante's.  Rector  loaned  us  his  tailor,  and  the 
three  of  us  were  outfitted  in  faultless  evening  attire. 
As  we  were  dressing  I  slipped  on  my  shoulder  scab- 
bard.    Frank  and  Rector  ridiculed  me. 

"Let  him  wear  his  side  arms,"  Porter  jibed. 
"There  should  be  one  gentleman  in  the  party." 

"I  guarantee  you  won't  need  them  tonight," 
Rector  promised. 

I  took  them  off,  but  reluctantly.  I  came  back  later 
and  slipped  the  six-shooter  into  my  trousers'  belt. 
That  precaution  saved  the  "Four  Million"  and  all  her 
treasured  successors  for  America. 

Porter  looked  a  prince  that  night.  Always  fas- 
tidious about  his  person,  the  full  dress  enhanced  his 
air  of  distinction.  He  was  a  figure  to  arrest  attention 
in  any  gathering. 

And  he  was  in  one  of  his  most  inconsequent,  ban- 
tering moods.  We  stood  against  the  column  comment- 
ing on  the  dress  of  the  dons  and  the  Americans.  The 
Spaniards,  in  their  silk  stockings  and  the  gay-colored 
sashes  about  their  slick-fitting  suits,  seemed  to  Porter 
to  harmonize  with  the  beauty  and  the  music  of  the 
scene. 

"These  people  have  poetry  in  their  make-up,"  he 
said.  "What  an  interesting  spectacle  they  make. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  88 

As  if  to  illustrate  his  words,  the  handsomest  couple 
on  the  floor  swung  past.  If  ever  there  was  a  flaw- 
less job  turned  out  by  God  it  was  that  Spanish  don. 
There  were  a  hundred  years  of  culture  behind  the 
charm  in  his  manner ;  the  grace  in  his  walk.  He  was 
slimly  made,  quick  and  elegant.  He  had  a  face  of 
chisled  perfection. 

The  don's  partner  was  a  girl  of  most  extraordinary 
beauty — unusual  and  compelling.  Her  red  hair,  her 
magnificent  blue  eyes  and  her  pearl-white  skin  stood 
out,  among  so  many  dark  faces,  as  something  touched 
with  an  unnatural  radiance.  She  wore  a  lavender 
gown.  She  had  the  color  and  the  witchery  of  a  living 
opal. 

I  turned  to  call  Bill's  attention.  The  girl  had 
noticed  him.  As  she  passed  she  gave  the  faintest  toss 
of  her  head  and  a  smile  that  was  more  in  the  tail  of 
her  eye  than  on  her  lip.  With  the  deference  due  to  a 
queen,  Porter  smiled  and  made  a  courtly  bow.  The 
don  stiffened,  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  handsome  face 
twitched.     I  knew  that  the  incident  was  not  closed. 

"Bill,  you're  making  a  mistake.  You're  breeding 
trouble  among  these  people,"  I  told  him. 

"Colonel,  I  feel  that  that  would  enliven  the  occa- 
sion." The  imperturable,  hushed  tone  gave  no  indi- 
cation of  the  reckless  devilment  of  his  mood.  Porter 
was  as  full  of  whims  as  an  egg  is  of  meat. 

"Sir,  I  see  that  you  are  a  stranger  here,"  a  voice 
that  was  mellow  as  thick  cream  addressed  us.  It  was 
the  don.  His  smile  would  have  been  a  warning  to 
any  man  but  Bill  Porter.  "You  are  not  accustomed 
to  our  ways.    I  regret  that  I  have  not  the  honor  of 


84  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

your  acquaintance.  Had  I  that  honor  I  should  be 
glad  to  introduce  you  to  the  senorita.  Since  I  can- 
not claim  the  privilege,  I  beg  you  to  desist  in  your 
attentions  to  my  affianced." 

The  Enghsh  was  perfect.  The  don  bowed  and 
walked  leisurely  off.  His  flow  of  gentility  won  m.e. 
I  could  not  help  comparing  him  to  the  money-grab- 
bing, flat-footed  boors  that  decorate  an  American 
ballroom.  The  Castihan  seemed  to  me  worthy  of 
respect.  Porter  was  not  at  all  impressed  by  his 
request. 

The  grand  march  passed  again.  I  do  not  know 
what  devilment  possessed  the  girl.  It  seemed  to  run 
like  an  electric  current  from  her  to  Porter.  As  she 
stepped  toward  him  she  dropped  her  mantilla — so 
lightly,  so  deftly,  that  it  did  not  even  arrest  the  at- 
tenion  of  the  don. 

Porter  stooped  down,  picked  it  up,  held  it  a  mo- 
ment and  then  passed  behind  the  couple.  He  flashed 
a  glance  of  joyous  chivalry  at  the  senorita,  bowed 
and  handed  the  lace  directly  to  her. 

"Senorita,  you  dropped  this,  did  you  not?"  he  said. 
She  took  it  and  smiled.  Never  was  Bill  Porter  more 
magnetic  than  that  night. 

*'Now  you've  played  hell,"  I  said.  He  had  com- 
mitted a  mortal  breach,  and  he  knew  it.  Spanish 
etiquette  demanded  that  the  presentation  be  made 
to  the  don,  who  would  thank  him  for  the  senorita. 

*T've  played  everything  else,"  he  answered  undis- 
turbed. The  incident  had  passed.  It  was  at  least  10 
minutes  later.  Neither  of  us  saw  the  don  coming 
until  he  stood  like  a  tiger  before  Porter.     With  a 


WITH  O.  HENRY  85 

sweep  that  was  lightning,  he  brought  his  open  hand 
down  in  a  ringing  blow  full  across  Porter's  face. 

The  blow  was  so  sudden,  so  full  of  swift  animal 
fury,  it  knocked  Porter  against  the  column.  The 
don  drew  back,  brushing  his  hand  in  scornful  con- 
tempt. The  by-standers  stood  aghast  at  the  stinging 
humiliation  of  the  patrician  stranger. 

It  was  but  the  breath  of  an  instant.  Porter  leaped 
up,  his  broad  shoulders  hunched  forward,  his  face 
crimson  with  rage.  On  his  cheek,  four  livid  welts 
stood  out  like  white  bhsters.  In  that  scene  of  ex- 
quisite culture,  the  ferocity  of  the  jungle  was  un- 
leashed. 

Like  a  mad  bull.  Porter  sprang  for  the  don,  strik- 
ing right  and  left. 

The  don  hurled  himself  forward,  gripping  Porter 
about  the  waist.  Something  flashed.  The  next  sec- 
ond, his  stiletto  was  driving  straight  for  Porter's 
throat. 

It  was  Bill's  hfe  or  the  don's. 

I  fired  in  the  Spaniard's  face. 

The  sudden  roar  went  like  dynamite  through  the 
ballroom.  The  don  fell,  Porter  stood  as  though  hewn 
of  stone,  a  look  of  white  horror  frozen  to  his  face. 
From  everywhere  voices  whispered  and  all  at  once 
raised  into  a  mighty  protest. 

Out  from  the  corridors  two  men  dashed  the  crowd 
aside,  charging  upon  us.  Rector  swept  me  into  his 
gigantic  arms  as  though  I  were  a  kitten.  Frank 
caught  Porter  and  pushed  him  hurriedly  from  the 
room. 

Rector's  carriage  stood  waiting.    We  were  hustled 


86  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

into  it.  The  most  dismal  ride  of  my  life  began.  Not 
a  word  was  said.  Porter  sat  like  a  man  stricken  cold 
with  staggering  dismay. 

Frank  slumped  down  in  one  corner,  sullen  with  an- 
ger, recoiling  from  me  as  though  I  had  done  an  evil 
thing.  It  lashed  me  as  a  torment.  I  felt  their  tense 
nervousness,  but  I  felt  justified  as  well. 

I  had  not  killed  deliberately.  I  had  acted  only  to 
save  Bill.  The  death  of  the  don  did  not  trouble  me. 
Porter's  quiet  stung  like  a  wasp  bite.  I  wanted  some- 
one to  tell  me  I  had  done  the  right  thing. 

Resentment  and  an  unbearable  irritation  against  all 
of  them  bit  into  me.  I  felt  as  though  I  were  in  the 
"Black  Maria''  on  the  way  to  the  scaffold.  An  op- 
pressive hush  weighed  like  a  suffocating  hot  breath 
upon  us. 

The  carriage  swung  through  a  narrow  lane  of 
palms.  The  trees  looked  hke  upraised  black  swords. 
The  monotonous  clatter  of  the  hoof  beats  was  the 
only  sound.  The  silence  seemed  an  intentional  re- 
proach to  me. 

"Damned  ingratitude" — I  hissed  out  the  words 
more  to  myself  than  to  them.  Porter  stirred  and 
leaned  forward.  His  hand  went  out  and  caught  mine. 
I  felt  immediately  at  peace.  No  word  could  have 
filled  me  with  the  satisfaction  of  that  warm,  expres- 
sive clasp. 

For  miles  we  rode  silently,  swiftly.  Not  a  com- 
ment! Rector  lit  a  cigar.  In  the  soft  match-light, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Porter's  face. 

It  was  still  struck  with  that  shocked  look  of  re- 
pugnance as  though  he  were  recoiling  from  himself 


WITH  O.  HENRY  87 

and  the  thoughtless  caprice  that  had  precipitated  the 
ugly  tragedy.  It  was  such  an  unfair  consequence  of 
that  moment  of  bantering  gaiety. 

In  a  mood  of  miwonted  levity  he  had  answered  the 
challenge  in  a  smile.  It  was  an  ordinary  ballroom 
episode.  And  for  that  pleasantry  he  was  crushed 
down  with  this  overwhelming  disaster. 

The  big  misfortunes  of  his  hfe  seem  all  to  have 
come  upon  him  with  as  little  invitation.  The  law 
of  cause  and  effect  in  his  case  worked  in  an  inscru- 
table fashion. 

When  Porter  put  out  his  hand  to  me  the  tragedy 
was  over  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  To  him  it  was 
always  a  hideous  memory. 

Once  he  alluded  to  it.  We  were  sitting  together 
in  the  warden's  office  in  the  Ohio  penitentiary. 

''That  night,"  he  said,  "was  the  most  terrible  in 
my  life."  I  could  not  understand.  That  the  don 
should  die  if  Porter  were  to  live  seemed  clearly  in- 
evitable. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Colonel,  I  was  as  gTiilty  as  a  murderer,"  he  said. 

"You're  not  sorry  it  was  the  don  who  went  down?" 
His  version  stung  me. 

"I've  always  regretted  it,"  he  answered. 

His  regret  was  not  for  the  don's  death  so  much 
as  for  the  failure  of  his  own  life.  I  think  that  many 
times  Porter  would  have  welcomed  death  to  the  gall- 
ing humihation  of  prison  life. 

If  we  could  have  stayed  in  ]\Iexico  all  of  us  might 
have  escaped  the  shadows  of  unhappy  pasts.  We 
were  hurried  out  and  none  of  us  wished  to  leave. 


88  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Down  toward  the  peninsula,  about  50  miles  south- 
Tvest  of  Mexico  City,  the  richest  valley  in  the  world 
lay.    We  had  looked  it  over. 

It  was  to  have  been  our  home.  Things  grew  there 
almost  spontaneously.  Bananas,  corn,  alhgator 
pears  asked  only  to  be  planted.  The  palms  were 
magnificent. 

"Here,"  Porter  said  when  we  had  decided  to  pur- 
chase it,  "one  could  work  and  dream  out  his  imagery." 
I  did  not  know  what  he  meant.  I  learned  when  I 
read  "Cabbages  and  Kings."  Here,  too,  Frank  and 
I  hoped  to  reestablish  ourselves.  Each  had  his  own 
dream. 

In  that  silent  ride  the  vision  passed.  To  Frank 
and  to  me  it  was  but  another  misadventure  in  lives 
already  overcrowded.  Neither  of  us  realized  that  a 
bitter  crisis  had  been  reached  in  the  life  of  the  reti- 
cent, droll-tongued  feilov/,  "Bill." 

We  never  dreamed  that  prison  waited  for  him  as 
it  did  for  us.  We  never  thought  that  this  born  aris- 
tocrat would  one  day  be  compelled  to  eat  at  a  "hog 
trough"  with  thieves  and  murderers  and  to  bend  his 
pride  to  the  ignorant  scowl  of  a  convict  guard.  Por- 
ter, I  think,  knew  that  the  die  was  cast  for  him  when 
we  left  Mexico. 

If  we  could  have  planted  ourselves  in  that  miracu- 
lous valley  he  might  have  escaped  the  forbidding 
future  awaiting  him.  He  could  have  sent  for  his 
daughter.  He  would  have  avoided  the  shame  of  that 
striped  suit — the  shame  that  wore  into  his  heart  and 
broke  his  life  up  in  wretchedness. 

But  he  smiled  lightly  at  the  don's  sefiorita,  and 


WITH  O.  HENRY  89 

consequences  hurled  him  back  to  face  the  issues  he 
had  dodged. 

It  is  eas)^  now  to  understand  the  look  of  rigid  hor- 
ror on  his  face  as  we  got  down  at  Rector's  home. 

Jumbo  poured  whiskey  for  us  and  tried  to  lighten 
our  mood.  Porter  was  so  unstrung  that  when  the 
coachman  knocked  to  tell  us  the  team  was  ready  he 
reeled  and  seemed  about  to  collapse. 

"Don't  worry,"  Rector  said  as  he  shook  hands. 
"Everything  will  be  all  right.  You  can  trust  this 
driver.  I'm  going  back  to  the  hotel.  I  will  tell  the 
officers  you  are  at  my  home.    It  will  give  you  a  fair 

start." 

We  went  to  a  little  way  station  on  the  Tampico 
road,  later  caught  a  tramp  steamer  at  Mazatlan  and 
finaUy  arrived  at  San  Diego,  striking  out  on  a  flying 
trip  to  San  Francisco,    We  never  got  there. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

In    California;    the    bank-robbery;    O.    Henry's    refusal;    purchase    of    a 
ranch;  coming  of  the  marshals;  flight  and  pursuit;  the 
trap;  capture  at  last. 

O.  Henry  has  been  called  a  democrat,  a  citizen  of 
the  world.  The  laboratory  wherein  he  caught  and 
dissected  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  was  in  the 
alleys  and  honkatonks.  He  sought  to  interpret  life 
in  the  raw,  not  in  the  superficial  hvery  disguising  it 
on  the  broad  ways.  The  under  dog  was  his  subject 
But  at  heart  he  was  an  aristocrat. 

He  had  all  the  proud  sensitiveness  of  the  typical 
Southern  gentleman.  He  liked  to  mingle  with  the 
masses;  he  was  not  one  of  them.  Gladly  he  threw  in 
his  lot  with  a  pair  of  bandits  and  fugitives.  It  would 
have  cut  him  to  the  soul  to  have  been  branded  as  one 
of  them. 

For  his  haughty  nature,  the  ramble  from  ^lexico 
to  San  Diego  and  up  the  coast  to  San  Francisco  was 
fraught  with  disagreeable  suspense.  It  was  humihat- 
ing  to  "be  on  the  dodge." 

I  will  never  forget  the  look  of  chagrin  that  spread 
over  his  face  when  I  bumped  against  him  and  Frank 
just  as  the  ferrv  boat  was  swinging  into  the  sHp. 

"Sneak,"  I  said.    "They're  here." 

The  chief  of  the  Wells  Fargo  detectives  was  on 
the  boat.  He  had  brushed  against  my  arm.  Before 
he  had  an  opportunity  to  renew  old  acquaintance,  I 


WITH  O.  HENRY  91 

sauntered  over  to  Frank  and  Porter.  Wells  Fargo 
had  many  uncollected  claims  against  me.  I  was  not 
ready  for  the  settlement.  Captain  Dodge  was  prob- 
ably unaware  of  my  presence.  We  could  not  afford 
to  take  any  chances.  We  stayed  on  the  boat  and  it 
brought  us  back  to  Oakland. 

Bill  was  a  trifle  upset.  He  insisted  on  staking 
us  all  to  a  drink,  although  he  had  to  borrow  the 
money  from  me  to  pay  for  the  treat.  Texas  seemed 
to  be  the  only  safe  camping  ground  for  us. 

With  about  $417  left  from  our  capital  of  $30,000, 
we  landed  in  San  Antonio,  still  hankering  for  the 
joys  of  simple  range  hfe.  There  I  met  an  old  cow- 
man friend  of  mine  and  he  took  us  out  to  his  ranch. 
Fifty  miles  from  the  town  it  ran  into  low  hills  and 
valleys,  prairies  and  timber.  A  finer  strip  of  coun- 
try no  peeler  would  ask.  The  cowman  offered  us 
range,  cattle  and  horses  for  $15,000. 

It  was  a  bargain.  Frank  and  I  decided  to  snap 
it  up.    Financial  arrangements,  the  cowman  assured 

us,  could  be  made  with  the  bank  in , 

several  hundred  miles  distant.  In  the  safe  there  was 
at  least  $15,000,  and  it  could  be  easily  removed.  This 
was  a  straight  tip. 

It  was  a  pecuhar  situation.  Frank  and  I  had  both 
decided  to  quit  the  outlaw  life.  But  we  hadn't  a 
cent  and  there  was  but  one  way  to  gather  a  quick 
haul.  The  fine  fervor  of  reformation  had  lost  its 
early  ardor.    Necessity  completed  the  cooHng  process. 

But  we  were  a  little  worried  about  Porter.  What- 
ever may  have  been  his  reasons  for  staying  with  us 
we  were  confident  that  Bill  was  not  a  lawbreaker. 


92  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

The  very  thing  that  decided  us  to  take  him  into 
our  confidence  was  his  pride.  We  knew  he  needed 
the  money.    We  knew    it  humiliated  him  to  borrow. 

I  had  given  him  many  and  various  sums  since  our 
flight  from  Honduras.  These  were  always  accepted 
as  loans.  We  didn't  want  Bill  to  be  under  an  obh- 
gation  to  us.  We  wanted  him  to  earn  his  interest 
in  the  ranch. 

The  square  thing  was  to  invite  him  to  go  into  the 
banking  venture.  If  you  had  seen  Bill  Porter's  face 
then  and  the  helpless  surprise  that  scooted  across  it, 
you  would  believe  as  I  do  that  he  was  never  guilty 
of  the  theft  which  sent  him  for  nearly  four  years  of 
his  hfe  to  the  Ohio  Penitentiary.  He  had  neither 
recklessness  nor  the  sangfroid  of  the  lawbreaker. 

Just  about  evening  I  went  down  to  the  corral. 
Porter  was  sitting  there  enjoying  the  quiet  peace. 
He  was  rolling  a  corn-shuck  cigarette. 

He  looked  happier  and  more  at  ease  than  at  any 
time  since  the  shooting  of  the  don.  I  suppose  I 
should  have  broached  the  subject  mildly.  The  satis- 
fying dreariness  of  this  October  night  was  not  sug- 
gestive of  crime  or  robbery.  But  the  gentleness  of 
the  Madonna  would  not  have  lured  Bill  Porter  into 
the  scheme. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "we're  going  to  buy  the  ranch  for 
$15,000  and  we  want  you  to  come  in  with  us  on  the 
deal." 

He  paused  with  his  cigarette  half  rolled. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  "I  would  like  nothing  better 
than  to  settle  in  this  magnificent  country,  and  to  live 
here  unafraid  and  unmolested.    But  I  have  no  funds.'' 


WITH  O.  HENRY  93 

"That's  just  it.     Neither  have  we.     We're  about 

to  get  them.     Down  there  in ,  there's  a  bank 

with  $15,000  in  its  vaults.     That  money  ought  to  be 
put  into  circulation." 

The  tobacco  dropped  from  the  paper.  Porter 
looked  up  quickly  and  searched  my  face.  He  saw 
that  I  was  in  earnest.  He  was  not  with  us,  but  not 
for  a  fortune  would  he  wound  us  or  even  permit  me 
to  think  that  he  judged  us. 

"Colonel — "  This  time  his  large  eyes  twinkled.  It 
was  seldom  that  he  smiled.  I  never  heard  him  laugh 
but  twice.  "I'd  Hke  a  share  in  this  range.  But  tell 
me,  would  I  have  to  shoot  anybody?" 

"Oh,  perhaps  so,  but  most  likely  not." 

"Well,  give  me  the  gun.  If  I  go  on  the  job  I 
want  to  act  Hke  an  expert.    I'll  practice  shooting." 

No  outlaw  would  ever  ask  another  for  his  forty-five. 
The  greatest  compliment  a  cowpuncher  can  give  the 
man  he  trusts  is  to  hand  over  his  gun  for  inspection. 

Porter  took  the  honor  lightly.  He  handled  the 
gun  as  though  it  were  a  live  scorpion.  I  forgot  to 
warn  him  that  I  had  removed  the  trigger  and  the 
gun  would  not  stay  cocked.  By  this  device  I  could 
shoot  faster  at  close  range,  gaining  a  speed  almost 
equal  to  the  modem  automatic. 

Like  all  amateurs.  Bill  put  his  thumb  on  the  ham- 
mer and  pulled  it  back.  Then  he  started  walking 
back  and  forth  with  the  forty-five  in  his  hand  and  his 
hand  dropped  to  his  side.  Without  intending  to,  he 
shifted  his  grip,  releasing  his  thumb  from  the  hammer. 

There  was  a  sudden,  sharp  explosion,  a  little  geyser 
of  earth  spurted  upward.    When  it  cleared  there  was 


94  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

a  hole  as  big  as  a  cow's  head  scooped  in  the  ground. 
My  forty-five  lay  in  the  depression.  Porter,  scared 
but  unhurt,  stood  staring  over  it. 

''Colonel,"  he  looked  up  at  me  a  little  abashed,  "I 
think  I  would  be  a  hindrance  on  this  financial  un- 
dertaking." 

I  wanted  Porter  to  go  with  us.  We  didn't  need 
him,  but  I  had  already  grown  very  fond  of  the  moody, 
reticent,  cultured  fellow.  I  didn't  want  him  to  be 
dependent  on  us  and  I  wanted  his  company  on  the 
range. 

"Well,  you  needn't  take  the  gun.  You  just  stay 
outside  and  hold  the  horses.  We  really  need  you 
for  that. 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  even  hold  the  horses,"  he 
answered. 

Troubled  and  fearful  lest  we  should  never  return, 
he  bade  us  good-bye.  I  did  not  know  until  the  deal 
was  closed  and  the  ranch  ours,  the  days  of  worry  and 
misery  that  Bill  Porter  suffered  while  Frank  and 
I  went  down  to  take  up  the  matter  with  the  bank. 

We  left  Porter,  harried  with  anxiety,  at  the  Hotel 
Plaza  in  San  Antonio.  Frank  and  I  and  the  rancher 
rode  into . 

Our  plan  was  simple.  The  cowman  was  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  marshals  while  we  cleaned  out 
the  bank's  vault. 

The  bank  stood  on  a  corner  opposite  the  public 
square.  The  cowman  went  quietly  to  a  bench  to  wait 
for  the  signal  from  me.  I  pulled  out  my  handkerchief 
and  began  mopping  my  face.    He  opened  fire,  shoot- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  95 

ing  like  a  lunatic  into  the  air.  Men  and  women  ran 
into  the  saloons,  stores,  houses.  The  officials  hurried 
over  to  the  crazy  cowman. 

Frank  and  I  walked  into  the  bank,  stuck  up  the 
cashier  and  compelled  the  delivery  of  $15,560  in  cur- 
rency. The  rancher,  charged  with  drunkenness,  was 
arrested,  fined  and  released.  Frank  and  I  left  the 
bank  as  quietly  as  the  next-door  merchant  might  have. 
The  ruse  worked. 

We  went  straight  to  the  ranch  and  then  doubled 
back  to  San  Antonio.  It  was  about  two  days  since 
we  had  left  Porter.  He  was  not  ordinarily  a  warm- 
spoken  man,  but  when  he  saw  us  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  his  voice  was  rich  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"Colonel,  congratulations.  This  is  indeed  a  happy 
moment.  I  was  so  troubled  in  your  absence.'*  From 
Bill  Porter  that  greeting  was  more  expressive  than 
the  gustiest  tribute  from  the  glib-tongued.  Porter's 
stories  are  crowded  with  colorful  slang.  His  own 
speech  was  invariably  pure  and  correct. 

All  of  us  knew  that  the  parting  had  come.  If  Bill 
could  not  rob  with  us  he  could  not  settle  down  on 
the  range  bought  with  our  stolen  bills. 

I  have  never  relished  farewells.  I  did  not  want 
to  probe  into  Porter's  soul.  He  had  never  said  a 
word  about  his  past.  He  had  not  even  told  us  his 
name.  But  little  as  I  wished  to  quiz  him,  I  was  eager 
to  know  his  identity.  I  did  not  want  to  lose  track  of 
him  forever. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "here's  where  we  split  out.  We're 
getting  on  mighty  famihar  soil.  There's  likely  to  be 
trouble  enough  some  day.     Something  may  turn  up. 


96  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

I'd  like  to  write  to  you.    I  might  want  your  advice." 

"I  haven't  been  very  frank  with  you,  have  I?"  he 
answered.     "I'm  sorry." 

Such  reticence,  I  felt,  was  more  than  a  shield  for 
an  unhappy  love-affair.  Porter's  troubles,  I  knew, 
must  be  deeper  than  I  had  suspected. 

"Good-bye,  colonel;  may  we  meet  happily  again," 
he  said. 

And  the  next  time  I  saw  him,  nearly  three  years 
later,  the  very  word  "happy"  was  stricken  from  his 
vocabular}^ 

Frank  and  I  went  out  to  our  ranch.  For  six 
months  we  lived  in  free  and  profitable  industry.  Sud- 
denly an  old,  familiar  face  peered  in  at  our  window. 
"Mex,"  a  bandit  friend,  had  tracked  our  haunt. 
Other  faces  appeared  on  the  range  and  dodged  again. 
The  marshals  had  located  us. 

Frank,  Mex  and  I  escaped.  For  weeks  v/e  rode 
from  range  to  range.  Hunger  spurred  us.  There 
were  more  robberies.  And  then  there  was  the  Rock 
Island  daylight  holdup.  We  had  counted  on  a  clean 
haul  of  $90,000  from  the  express  car.  Our  dynamite 
failed  to  break  the  safe.  We  were  cheated  on  the 
transaction. 

It  was  our  most  futile  venture.  It  led  to  our  cap- 
ture. The  stickup  was  counted  the  boldest  in  outlaw 
exploits.  Armed  bands  patrolled  the  country  for  the 
^'Jennings  gang."    In  December,  '97,  they  caught  us. 

We  had  gone  back  to  the  old  Spike  S,  the  range 
where  I  had  first  met  and  joined  the  outlaws,  the 
range  where  the  ]M.,  K.  and  T.  robbery  was  planned. 
We  were  waiting  the  arrival  of  "Little  Dick." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  97 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  wind  was 
howling  hke  a  fiend  outside.  Mrs.  Harliss  went  to 
the  porch.  A  man,  covered  with  dirt,  his  eyes  swollen 
almost  shut,  his  coat  dripping  with  rain,  asked  shelter. 
He  was  a  ranchman  who  lived  some  miles  away. 
That  night  he  came  as  a  spy.    We  were  his  quarry. 

All  of  us  felt  the  "closing  of  the  trap."  We  had 
nothing  but  our  suspicions  to  work  on.  The  rancher 
was  a  friend  of  the  Harliss  folk.  We  could  not  hold 
him. 

But  none  of  us  went  to  bed  that  night. 

The  sun  came  blazing  out  brilliant  but  cold  the 
next  morning.  Mrs.  Harliss  went  down  to  the  cis- 
tern for  water.  She  came  rushing  back,  her  shawl 
gone,  her  hair  blowing  in  the  wind. 

"The  marshals  are  here!    We'll  all  be  killed!" 

Frank  and  Bud  hurled  themselves  downstairs, 
Winchesters  in  their  hands.  Mrs.  Harliss  grabbed 
her  little  brother  in  her  arms  and  ran  to  the  front: 
door.     I  started  out  through  the  kitchen  window. 

Bullets  tore  the  knobs  off  the  front  door.  The  first 
volley  splintered  glass  in  my  face.  We  got  to  a  little 
box-house  just  outside  the  ranch  home.  There  were 
three  rooms  downstairs,  one  up.  The  shots  wxnt 
through  the  house  as  though  it  were  cardboard. 

Bullets  broke  the  dishes  on  the  table,  smashed  the 
stove,  dashed  the  pictures  off  the  wall.  Tliree  of 
us  were  hit.  We  were  surrounded  on  three  sides. 
Marshals  were  in  the  barn  to  the  northeast,  the  log 
house  to  the  north  and  the  rocks  and  timber  to  the 
northwest;  a  little  peach  orchard  skirted  the  south. 
Beyond  that  was  open  prairie. 


98  THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

We  fought  for  40  minutes,  until  our  rickety  fortress 
was  all  but  shattered.  Then  we  hit  for  the  prairie, 
firing  as  we  ran.  They  didn't  dare  to  track  us  into 
the  open  spaces. 

Just  across  the  Duck  Creek  we  stopped  to  bind  our 
wounds.  I  was  shot  above  the  knee,  the  bullet  lodg- 
ing in  the  bone.  Bud  was  shot  in  the  shoulder,  and 
Bill  had  a  gash  that  looked  like  a  dog  bite  in  his 
thigh.  Frank's  clothes  had  27  holes  in  the  coat.  He 
was  not  even  scratched. 

Up  in  the  mountains  we  prepared  for  a  "last 
stand."  We  hid  all  day.  It  was  blue  cold.  Be- 
tw^een  us  we  had  two  apples.  That  was  our  fare  for 
three  days.     The  marshals  didn't  follow. 

We  recrossed  the  creek,  took  a  couple  of  Indians 
and  their  pony  team  prisoners  and  made  for  the 
Canadian  River  bed.  My  wound  swelled.  I  had 
to  rip  it  open  twice  with  my  penknife  to  get  relief. 
We  made  straight  for  Benny  Price's  house.  He  had 
been  a  friend  of  ours  before  the  outlaw  days.  He 
took  us  in  and  gave  us  a  good  meal.  We  could  not 
stay  without  menacing  his  welfare. 

There  was  another  friend  there,  a  horsethief  named 
Baker.  He  came  down  and  gave  us  a  wagon.  Frank 
did  not  trust  him.  He  would  not  go.  Bud,  Bill  and 
I  got  into  the  covered  wagon.  Baker  was  to  drive 
us  to  his  house.  Bill  seemed  to  be  dying  with  his 
wounds.  Bud  and  I  were  both  unconscious.  I  came 
to.     Someone  was  sitting  on  the  driver's  seat. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"]\le,  damn  it!"  Frank  answered.  "Let's  get  out 
of  this.'^ 


WITH  O.  HENRY  99 

While  we  were  unconscious,  Baker  sent  word  to 
Frank  that  I  wanted  him.  He  had  come.  Baker 
drove  us  into  the  timber,  into  the  trap,  and  left  us 
vowing  that  we  were  on  the  right  road.  A  felled 
tree  lay  athwart  the  path.  Bill  was  dying.  Bud 
and  I,  but  half  conscious,  were  dozing  in  the  bottom 
of  the  wagon.  Frank  had  scrambled  out  to  move 
the  tree. 

The  cordon  of  marshals,  six-shooters  cocked,  sprang 
about  us. 

*' Jennings,  surrender  1" 

About  ten  to  one,  they  had  us. 

It  took  nearly  two  years  before  sentence  was 
passed.  I  was  given  five  years  on  a  charge  of  as- 
sault with  intent  to  kill  a  deputy.  In  another  dis- 
trict I  was  found  guilty  of  the  Rock  Island  holdup 
and  given  life  imprisonment.  I  was  sent  to  the  Ohio 
penitentiary. 

The  mystery  of  fate  had  brought  me  to  the  home 
of  BiU  Porter. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

In  the  Ohio  Penitentiary;  horrors  of  prison  life;  in  and  out  of  Banker's 
Row;   a  visit  from  O.  Henry,  fellow  convict;  promise  of  help. 

In  prison  men  live  unnatural  lives.  Brutal  asso- 
ciations are  forced  upon  them.  They  are  fed  at  a 
hog  trough,  locked  into  stifling  ceils  and  denied  all 
wholesome  communication  with  right-living  people. 
The  devices  employed  to  crush  out  the  better  instincts 
are  monstrous  beyond  the  conception  of  healthy- 
minded  men  and  women. 

The  confinement  cramps  and  yellows  even  the  city 
man.  The  outlaw,  used  to  the  big  freedom  of  the 
plains  and  the  mountains,  is  a  doomed  man  once  he 
steps  inside  the  gray  stone  walls. 

As  soon  as  I  felt  the  heavj^  breath  of  the  prison — 
the  breath  laden  with  evil  smells,  charged  with  bitter 
curses,  pulsing  with  hushed  resentment — the  beast 
reared  within  me. 

]My  arrival  had  been  heralded  by  every  newspaper 
in  the  State.  Every  man  in  the  prison  knew  it.  Two 
train-robbers,  former  friends  of  mine  on  the  outside, 
wanted  to  renew  old  acquaintance.  By  some  crook, 
they  managed  to  pass  me  in  the  corridor. 

They  were  as  ghosts.  For  a  moment  I  could  not 
recall  them.  Like  white  shadows,  long  and  bent,  they 
ghded  past.    One  year  in  the  penitentiary  had  evapo- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  101 

rated  the  life  from  their  bodies.  They  came  in  husky 
giants.     They  went  out  wasted  wrecks. 

And  then  there  was  my  first  meal.  The  odor  of 
slumgulhon,  of  putrid  meat,  of  millions  of  flies, 
surged  in  an  overpowering  wave  upon  me  as  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  opened.  I  sat  on  a  stool  between 
two  sweaty  negroes,  who  were  more  like  gorillas  than 
men. 

There  was  the  clatter  of  tin,  the  shuffle  of  uneasy 
feet,  the  waving  of  upraised  hands  signaling  the 
guards  for  bread.  No  sound  of  the  human  voice,  but 
that  God-forsaken,  weighty,  brutal  dumbness  im- 
posed upon  convicts  in  the  penitentiary. 

At  each  place  there  was  a  tin  of  stew.  Maggots 
floated  in  the  gravy.  A  hunk  of  bread  and  a  saucer 
of  molasses  and  flies  filled  out  the  menu.  I  had 
been  used  to  coarse  fare.  This  stinking  filth  sick- 
ened me. 

A  burly,  red-faced  fellow  opposite  leaned  over,  his 
face  almost  in  his  plate,  and  shoveled  in  the  noisome 
stew.  He  raised  two  fingers.  A  trusty  came  down, 
a  great  dishpan  hung  from  his  neck.  With  one 
swipe  he  ladled  out  a  scoop  of  the  foul  mess  and  splat- 
tered it  on  the  red  fellow's  plate. 

Every  time  the  guards  helped  a  prisoner  they 
whacked  the  food  down  so  that  bits  of  the  meat  or 
fluid  spattered.  Some  of  the  gravy  splashed  across 
the  narrow  board  and  slopped  in  my  face.  In  an 
instant  I  was  on  my  feet.  The  negro  at  my  side 
pulled  me  down. 

"Doan  want  yoah  'lasses?"  he  asked.  I  pushed 
it  over  to  him. 


102    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

He  put  in  his  thumb,  jabbed  out  the  flies,  smudged 
them  on  the  table,  and  ate. 

Shoved  into  the  cell  for  the  night,  I  felt  that  I 
was  forgotten  by  all  the  world.  The  cell  was  in 
reality  a  stone  vault,  four  by  eight  feet.  It  had  no 
window.  The  only  ventilation  came  from  the  barred 
door  that  opened  on  the  closed  corridor.  There  were 
two  straw  ticks  on  wooden  shelves.  These  were  the 
bunks.    Another  man  shared  the  fetid  hole  with  me. 

The  cells  were  entirely  without  sanitary  equip- 
ment. On  Saturday  night  the  men  were  locked  up 
and  kept  in  this  stifling  confinement  until  Monday 
morning.  Two  men  sleeping,  breathing,  tramping 
about  in  a  walled  space  four  by  eight  for  36  hours 
turned  that  closet  into  a  hell.  It  was  no  longer  air 
that  filled  the  place,  but  a  reeking  stench. 

When  the  first  Monday  morning  came  I  decided 
to  move.  I  had  been  placed  in  the  transfer  oflice. 
Few  prisoners  are  qualified  to  act  as  clerks.  I  was 
given  this  office  position  the  day  after  my  arrival. 
It  was  my  business  to  keep  a  check  on  all  the  men, 
to  tabulate  all  transfers  from  one  cell  to  another 
and  to  check  up  on  all  releases.  Not  an  official  nor 
a  clerk  could  leave  the  prison  until  every  convict 
was  accounted  for. 

There  was  one  cell  block  called  the  "Bankers' 
Row."  It  was  fitted  up  for  the  privileged  convicts. 
These  high  financiers  were  gentlemen.  They  had 
not  held  up  trains  and,  at  the  risk  of  life  and  limb, 
robbed  the  State  of  $20,000  or  $40,000. 

They  had  sat  in  well-furnished  offices  and  lolled 
in  easy  chairs  while  they  did  their  thieving.     They 


WITH  O.  HEXRY  103 

were  polite  about  it  when  they  filched  the  funds 
entrusted  to  them  by  laborers,  small  investors,  work- 
ing girls. 

They  ground  hundreds  of  struggling  families  un- 
der heel,  but  they  were  careful  to  conceal  the  blood 
stains.     They  had  pilfered  in  millions. 

They  were  entitled  to  consideration.    They  got  it. 

Cells  in  Bankers'  Row  were  neat  parlors  compared 
to  the  vaults  in  the  I.  N.  K.  block,  where  I  was 
settled.  They  had  mirrors,  a  curtain  on  the  door  and 
a  carpet  on  the  floor.  One  of  the  exclusive  convicts 
was  discharged.     I  transferred  myself  into  his  cell. 

When  I  appeared  in  the  select  promenade  in  the 
morning  my  hickory  shirt  called  for  comment.  The 
bankers  were  all  prison  clerks.  They  were  permitted 
to  wear  white  shirts.  An  elegant,  pursy-faced,  cor- 
pulent bundle  of  Southern  gentility  accosted  me. 
His  bank  had  "failed"  for  $2,000,000. 

"Good  morning,  sah.  You  are  a  banker,  I  pre- 
sume ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"National?"  He  was  merely  interested  in  a  col- 
league. 

"Not  particularly.  I  robbed  any  and  all  of  them. 
You  are  an  embezzler?" 

The  magnate  from  New  Orleans  spluttered  out 
his  surprised  disgust.  His  neat  face  was  crimson 
with  resentment. 

"I  am  heah." 

**Yes,  sah;  so  am  I,'*  I  answered. 

"I  think  there  must  be  a  mistake."  He  walked 
off  haughtily. 


104    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

*'So  do  I.  I  am  going  back  with  the  horse-thieves, 
where  I'll  be  among  gentlemen/' 

My  departure  was  more  precipitous  than  I  had 
planned.  A  jealous  convict  *' snitched."  The  deputy 
warden  sent  for  me. 

*'Who  transferred  you?"  he  asked. 

"'The  transfer  clerk,"  I  answered.  Lucky  for  me 
the  deputy  was  in  a  good  humor. 

"What  for?" 

"A  good  bed,  a  carpet,  some  clean  air." 

'*Those  rooms  are  for  bankers,"  he  informed  me. 

"I'm  a  banker." 

"Not  their  sort.  They  didn't  terrify  with  a  gun. 
You  go  back  to  your  own  range.  They  might  steal 
what  you've  got." 

So  I  went  back  to  my  hole.  I  had  grown  used 
to  prison  bread.  I  learned  how  to  skim  the  worms 
out  of  the  stew.  I  could  do  without  molasses.  But 
I  could  not  endure  the  Sundays.  They  left  me 
weak,  stifled,  murderous.  The  fourth  one  since  my 
arrival  dawned. 

Every  Sunday  in  the  Ohio  penitentiary  an  at- 
tendant from  the  hospital  visited  the  cells  dispens- 
ing pills  and  quinine.  The  allotment  was  always 
given  to  the  prisoners  whether  they  needed  them  or 
not. 

The  hospital  attendant  was  standing  at  my  door. 
I  felt  his  glance,  but  I  did  not  meet  it.  And  then 
a  voice,  hushed  and  measured,  that  to  me  seemed 
like  sunlight  breaking  through  a  cloud,  sounded  in 
my  ear. 

The  low  rich  tones  rippled  through  the  black  prison 


WITH  O.  HENRY  105 

curtain.  The  waving  prairies  and  the  soft  hills  of 
the  Texas  ranch;  the  squat  bungalow  at  Honduras, 
the  tropical  valley  of  Mexico;  the  magnificent  scene 
in  the  ballroom  was  before  me. 

"Colonel,  we  meet  again." 

In  all  my  life  there  has  never  been  a  tenser  mo- 
ment than  when  Bill  Porter  spoke  that  simple  gi^eet- 
ing.  It  caught  me  hke  a  stab  in  the  heart.  I  felt 
like  crying.    I  could  not  bear  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

I  did  not  want  to  see  Bill  Porter  in  convict  stripes. 
For  months  we  shared  the  same  purse,  the  same  bread, 
the  same  glass.  We  had  traveled  through  South 
America  and  Mexico  together.  Not  a  word  had  he 
said  of  his  past.  And  here  it  was  torn  open  for  me  to 
see  and  the  secret  he  had  kept  so  quietly  shouted  out 
in  his  gray,  prison  suit  with  the  black  band  running 
down  the  trousers.  The  proudest  man  I  have  ever 
known  was  standing  outside  a  barred  door,  dispensing 
quinine  and  pills  to  jailbirds. 

"Colonel,  we  have  the  same  tailor,  but  he  does  not 
provide  us  with  the  same  cut  of  clothes,"  the  old 
droll,  whimsical  voice  drawled  without  a  chuckle.  I 
looked  into  the  face  that  would  have  scorned  to  show 
its  emotion.  It  was  still  touched  with  grave,  impres- 
sive hauteur,  but  the  clear  eyes,  in  that  moment, 
seemed  filmed  and  hurt. 

I  think  it  was  about  the  only  time  in  my  life  I  did 
not  feel  like  talking.  Bill  was  looking  at  my  ill-fitting 
hand-me-downs.  I  had  received  the  castoff  clothes  of 
some  other  prisoner.  They  hung  on  me  like  the  flap- 
ping rags  on  a  scarecrow.  The  sleeves  were  rolled  up 
and  the  trousers  tucked  back.   My  shoes  were  four 


106    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

sizes  too  large.  When  I  walked,  it  sounded  like  the 
clatter  of  a  horse  brigade. 

"But  you'll  soon  be  promoted  to  the  first  rank," 
Porter  said.  He  had  deliberately  sought  the  task 
of  dispensing  the  pills  in  order  to  get  me  a  word  of 
advice. 

"Colonel — "  He  spoke  quickly.  Conversation  was 
forbidden.  The  guard  might  come  into  the  range  at 
any  moment.  "Be  careful  of  the  friends  you  choose. 
On  the  outside  it  may  be  safe  to  pick  up  acquaint- 
ances at  every  siding.  I'm  glad  you  were  sociably 
inclined  at  Honduras.  The  O.  P.  is  a  different  coun- 
try.   Have  no  confidants." 

It  was  valuable  advice.  I  would  have  escaped  six 
months  of  torture  in  solitary  confinement  had  I  heed- 
ed it. 

"And  when  you  graduate  into  the  first  grade,  I'll 
see  what  'pull'  can  do  for  you.  There  may  be  a 
chance  to  have  you  transferred  to  the  hospital." 

That  was  all.  The  stealthy  footfall  of  the  guard 
brushed  along  the  corridor.  We  looked  at  each  other 
a  moment.  Porter  flipped  a  few  pills  into  my  hand 
and  carelessly  walked  off. 

As  he  left,  the  utter  isolation  of  the  prison  was 
intensified.  The  cell  walls  seemed  heaving  together, 
closing  me  into  a  black  pit.  I  felt  that  I  would  never 
see  Bill  Porter  again. 

He  had  said  nothing  of  liimself.  I  knew  that  he 
was  convicted  on  a  charge  of  embezzlement.  I  never 
asked  him  about  it.  One  day  in  New  York,  years 
later,  he  alluded  to  it.  He  was  shaving  in  his  room 
in  the  Caledonia  Hotel.     We  were  talking  of  old 


WITH  O.  HENRY  107 

times  in  the  Ohio  penitentiary.  He  wanted  me  to 
tell  him  of  a  bank-robbery  we  had  pulled  in  the  out- 
law days. 

"Bill,  what  did  you  fall  for?"  I  asked.  He  turned 
upon  me  a  look  of  quizzical  humor,  rubbed  the  lather 
into  his  chin,  and  waited  a  moment  before  he  an- 
swered. 

"Colonel,  I  have  been  expecting  that  question,  lo, 
these  many  years.  I  borrowed  four  from  the  bank 
on  a  tip  that  cotton  would  go  up.  It  went  down, 
and  I  got  five." 

It  was  but  another  of  his  quips.  Porter,  I  be- 
Heve,  and  all  of  his  friends  share  the  confidence,  was 
innocent  of  the  charge  laid  against  him.  He  was 
accused  of  misappropriating  about  $1,100  from  the 
First  National  Bank  of  Austin.  He  had  been  rail- 
roaded to  prison.     I  believe  it. 

It  was  not  his  guilt  that  I  thought  of  as  he  stood 
at  m}^  door  that  Sunday  morning,  but  his  buoyant 
friendship  and  the  odd,  dehghtfu^  gravity  of  his 
quiet  speech.  He  held  me  as  he  had  the  first  day 
I  met  him  in  the  Honduras  cantina 

But  as  he  left,  a  thought  full  of  a  stinging  irri- 
tation wedged  itself  into  these  happier  memories.  I 
had  been  in  prison  nearly  four  weeks.  Bill  Porter 
knew  it.  Every  one  in  the  penitentiary  knew  it. 
He  had  taken  his  time  about  visiting  me.  Had  it 
been  me,  I  would  have  rushed  to  see  him  at  the  first 
opportunity. 

I  tried  to  make  out  a  brief  for  him.  Porter  was 
a  valuable  man  in  prison.  He  had  been  a  pharma- 
cist in  Greensboro  before  entering  the  bank  at  Aus- 


108    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

tin.  This  experience  won  him  the  envied  position 
of  drug  clerk  in  the  prison  hospital.  Many  privi- 
leges softened  the  bitterness  of  convict  life.  He  had 
a  good  bed,  decent  food  and  comparative  freedom. 
Why  had  he  failed  to  visit  me? 

He  was  busy,  I  know.  And  he  would  have  gone 
to  almost  any  extremity  to  avoid  asking  a  favor  from 
the  guard.  It  would  have  cut  him  to  the  quick  to 
win  a  refusal  from  these  men  who  were  his  inferiors. 
Was  he  merely  waiting  his  easy  opportunity  to  see 
me? 

I  didn't  understand  Bill  Porter  then  as  I  learned 
to  know  him  later.  I  know  now  the  reason  for  that 
long  delay.  I  can  appreciate  the  goading  humilia- 
tion O.  Henry  suffered  when  he  stood  before  my  cell 
acknowledging  himself  a  criminal  even  as  myself. 
Porter  knew  my  high  esteem  for  him.  Always  reti- 
cent, it  was  an  aching  blow  to  his  pride  to  meet  me 
now,  no  longer  the  gentleman,  but  the  fellow  convict. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Despair;    attempt  at  escape;   In  the  hell-hole;  torture  in  the  prison;  the 

diamond-thief's  revenge;  the  flogging;  hard  labor;   a  message 

of  hope  from  O.  Henry. 

Weeks  went  by.  I  didn't  see  Porter  again.  The 
promise  of  help  and  a  position  in  the  hospital,  where 
food  was  good  and  beds  clean,  had  put  a  flavor  even 
into  prison  stew.  I  counted  on  Porter.  Gradually 
the  confidence  waned.  I  grew  bitter  with  resentment 
and  a  cold  feeling  of  abandonment.  I  had  been  used 
ragged  by  every  one.  It  began  to  eat  in  on  me  that 
Bill  was  one  with  all  the  other  ingrates  I  had  helped. 

I  did  not  know  that  he  was  working  for  me  all 
the  while.  I  did  not  realize  the  obstacles  that  block 
promotion  in  a  prison.  I  decided  to  help  myself. 
I  tried  to  escape,  was  caught,  sent  into  solitary  for 
14  days  and  then  brought  down  from  the  hell-hole  for 
trial. 

Dick  Price,  a  convict  I  had  befriended  and  a  life 
termer,  tried  to  save  me.  While  I  was  sitting  on  the 
bench  outside  the  deputy  warden's  room,  Dick  went 
past  me. 

"You've  got  a  fellow  Jennings  in  solitary  for  try- 
ing to  escape.  I  gave  him  the  saws.  He's  a  new  man. 
Ain't  been  here  long  enough  to  know  the  ropes.  I 
wised  him  up  to  escape.     Give  me  the  punishment.'* 

Dick  spoke  in  a  loud  voice.    I  knew  it  was  a  cue 


110    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

for  me.  He  had  not  given  me  the  saws.  He  knew 
nothing  about  the  escape  until  a  horse-thief  peached 
on  me. 

I  was  called  before  the  deputy. 

"How  did  you  like  j^our  new  home?"  he  asked  ^dth' 
a  leer.  He  meant  the  "hole"  in  solitary.  "I  found 
where  you  got  the  saws." 

"Dick  Price  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "Dick's  a  'mighty  good 
boy.  Been  here  a  'mighty  long  time.  Come  clean 
on  this  now  and  I'll  make  it  easy  for  you." 

"I  can't." 

"You'll  have  to." 

"I  can't." 

"By  God,  I'll  make  you."  I  knew  what  he  meant. 
It  made  me  desperate  with  fury. 

"By  God,  you  won't." 

"Here,  take  this  fellow  down  and  give  him  seventy- 
five." 

Only  a  man  who  has  been  in  hell's  mouth — who  has 
seen  the  blood  spurt  as  men,  stripped  and  chained, 
are  beaten  until  their  flesh  is  torn  and  broken  as  a 
derehct,  knows  the  indignity  and  depravity  of  a 
prison  beating.  I  saw  myself  cowed  by  thijs  scream- 
ing brutality.    It  made  a  fiend  of  me. 

"You  take  me,  you  damn'  coward;  you  strip  me 
and  beat  me  over  that  trough — try  it,  and  if  I  live 
through  it,  I'll  come  back  and  cut  your  damn'  throat!" 

The  deputy  reared  from  me,  his  face  ashen  with 
rage.  Like  a  tortured  maniac,  I  sprang  at  him.  The 
guards  rushed  forward,  made  a  leap  at  me,  stopped 
abruptly,  livid  and  simpering,  as  though  suddenly 


WITH  O.  HENRY  111' 

stricken.  If  any  one  of  them  had  touched  me  I  could 
have  torn  him  to  pieces. 

I  was  ready  to  be  killed  outright  sooner  than  sub- 
mit to  the  horrors  of  that  '^punishment  cell."  I  had 
seen  too  much  of  it — the  prison  demon  dragged  out 
of  solitary  and  whipped  into  bleeding  insensibility  a 
couple  of  times  a  week — other  prisoners  given  the 
* 'water*'  until  their  faces  were  one  red,  gushing  stream 
and  the  anguished  screams  filled  the  air. 

The  basement  where  these  things  were  done  was 
directly  under  the  hospital.  I  passed  above  it  and  I 
could  look  down  on  the  way  to  the  transfer  office. 
Three  weeks  before  a  man  had  been  beaten  to  death 
over  that  trough.  The  awful  debauchery  of  that 
murder  had  seared  into  my  brain. 

The  man  was  a  friend  of  mine  and  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  convicts  in  the  prison.  He  was  a  diamond 
robber — the  cleverest  crook  in  the  pen,  a  man  of  neat 
speech  and  cultured  manner.  He  had  stolen  some 
of  the  most  priceless  gems  in  the  State.  All  the  de- 
tectives in  the  country  had  not  been  able  to  locate 
the  jewels.  The  jewelers  offered  thousands  in  a  re- 
ward for  the  recovering  of  the  diamonds.  No  third 
degree,  no  punishment  could  force  from  the  man  the 
location  of  his  treasure. 

In  the  prison  was  an  editor,  sentenced  for  the  mur- 
der of  a  rival  newspaper  publisher.  This  fellow 
would  have  crucified  his  own  mother  to  gain  an  extra 
crust  for  himself.  He  was  always  worming  his  way 
into  favor  by  snitching  on  convicts.  For  some 
strange  reason — perhaps  because  of  their  intellectual 
equality,  he  and  the  diamond  robber  became  friends. 


112    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

One  morning  the  newspapers  carried  blazing  head- 
lines. The  stolen  diamonds  had  been  found.  The 
robber's  secret  was  out. 

Suspense  and  a  surcharged  excitement  held  the 
prison  in  a  grip.  We  knew  the  episode  was  not 
closed.    We  waited. 

The  diamond  robber  said  nothing.  Restless  curi- 
osity sent  its  questions  and  suppositions  across  the 
"grapevine  route"  from  one  cell  block  to  another. 
"Who  had  told?"     "What  would  happen?" 

The  answer  came  in  a  sudden  viciousness  that  re- 
vealed the  whole  betrayal.  The  robber  sneaked  one 
day  down  the  corridor.  He  had  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 
He  had  calculated  his  time.  He  fell  into  line  just  as 
the  editor  was  going  to  his  cell. 

There  was  a  frenzied  scream,  a  moment's  scuffle,  a 
loud,  prolonged,  tormented  cry.  The  editor  lay  on 
the  corridor  floor,  one  eye  burned  out  and  his  face 
puffed  and  flaming  with  the  carbolic  acid  that  was 
eating  into  his  flesh.  When  he  came  out  from  the 
hospital  he  was  half  blinded  and  his  face,  such  a 
seamy  mass  of  ugly  scars,  hell  itself  wouldn't  own 
him.  He  had  won  the  confidence  of  the  diamond- 
thief  and  betrayed  him. 

"Seventy-five"  was  the  punishment  ordered  for 
the  robber  for  the  assault  on  a  fellow  prisoner.  He 
was  a  tall,  slender  fellow,  graceful  and  muscular — 
made  like  a  white  marble  statue. 

Prison  is  not  the  place  for  dark  dealings.  Every 
convict  knew  in  less  than  an  hour  that  the  robber  was 
to  "get  his."  I  walked  out  from  the  transfer  oflice 
and  looked  down  the  stairs  into  the  basement.     The 


WITH  O.  HENRY  113 

robber,  strapped  across  the  trough,  his  ankles  drawn 
under  it,  his  arms  across  the  top,  was  already  a  mass 
of  blood. 

He  uttered  not  the  slightest  moan.  None  but  a 
hell  hound — and  that's  what  a  guard  becomes  when 
he  has  done  a  thing  like  this  a  hundred  times — could 
have  laid  those  hea\y  paddles,  with  their  edges  sharp 
as  razor  blades,  across  that  raw  and  jagged  flesh. 
The  robber  was  beaten  to  the  bone.  Long  after  he 
was  unconscious,  the  merciless  flaying  went  on. 

The  guards  stopped.  Half  an  hour  passed.  The 
robber  came  to.  The  guards  propped  him  up.  The 
deputy  warden  glowered  over  liim. 

"Now  say  that  you  are  sorry.  Say  that  you'll  obey 
the  rules,"  he  thmidered. 

The  mangled,  bleeding  victim,  who  couldn't  stand, 
couldn't  speak,  raised  a  gray,  death-stricken  face. 
And  after  a  long  pause,  a  husky  curse  came  from  his 
lips. 

" him,  I  wish  I  got  his  other  eye." 

They  strapped  him  back  to  the  trough  and  hacked 
him  to  death.  Broken  bones,  ragged  flesh,  they 
struck  into  it  until  it  doubled  a  limp  mass  into  the 
trough. 

That's  what  "seventy-five"  meant  in  the  Ohio 
penitentiary  in  1899. 

They  called  me  a  man-killer.  I  never  murdered  a 
man  in  my  life.  I  shot  quick  and  clean  in  self-de- 
fense. I  would  have  felt  myself  a  degraded  beast  to 
have  foully  killed  like  that. 

If  that  warden  had  carried  out  his  sentence,  he 
would  have  died  hke  a  cur.    He  knew  it. 


114    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

I  was  reduced  to  the  fourth  grade,  given  a  suit  of 
white  with  black  stripes  running  horizontally  across 
it,  put  in  with  the  lockstep  gang  and  sent  to  the  bolt 
contract  to  work. 

The  confinement,  the  isolation,  the  cruel  discipline 
took  the  spirit  out  of  me.  I  heard  from  no  one.  No 
one  was  allowed  to  see  me.  Papers,  books,  visitors 
were  denied  me. 

And  then  I  faked  sick  just  to  get  a  word  to  Porter. 

The  "croaker"  was  taking  my  temperature.  Bill 
came  out  of  the  prescription-room;  he  was  not  al- 
lowed to  speak  to  me.  His  look  was  enough.  Bitter, 
sad,  troubled.  He  nodded  to  me  and  turned  his  back. 
I  knew  that  Bill  had  tried  and  failed.  He  was  pow- 
erless to  help  me. 

I  went  back  to  the  bolt  works.  This  is  the  hardest 
labor  in  the  prison.  Outside  contractors  pay  the 
State  about  30  cents  a  day  for  the  hire  of  the  men. 
If  a  given  task  is  not  finished  on  time  the  convict  is 
sent  to  the  hole  for  punishment.  Twice  in  three  days 
''Little  Jim,"  a  negro,  was  given  the  "water." 

A  hose  with  a  nozzle,  one-quarter  of  an  inch  in 
diameter,  sixty  pounds  pressure  behind  it,  sends  a 
stream  of  terrific  force  at  the  prisoner.  His  head  is 
held  strapped,  the  stream  that  is  hard  as  steel  is 
turned  full  in  the  man's  face,  his  eyes,  his  nostrils. 
The  pressure  compels  him  to  open  his  mouth.  The 
swift,  battering  deluge  tears  down  his  throat  and  rips 
his  stomach  in  two.  No  man  can  stand  the  "water" 
twice  and  live. 

Little  Jim  passed  my  bench  one  morning. 

"Mr.  Al,  they  done  give  Lil  Jim  the  water  ag'in," 


WITH  O.  HENRY  115 

he  whispered,  walked  a  step,  flopped  to  the  ground, 
a  red  geyser  spouting  from  his  mouth.  Before  Little 
Jim  reached  the  hospital  he  was  dead. 

After  that  morning,  I  was  about  finished.  I  lost 
all  hope,  all  ambition.    Bill  Porter  saved  me. 

Across  the  grapevine  route  he  sent  his  message. 
From  one  convict  to  another  the  word  went  until  it 
was  stealthily  whispered  in  my  ear : 

*'Don't  lose  heart.  I'm  working.  There's  a  new 
main  finger." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  new  main  finger;  a  tuba  solo;  failure  at  prayer;  transfer  to  the  post- 
offke;  literary  ambition;  O.  Henry  writes  a  story. 

The  new  "main  finger"  meant  a  new  warden  and 
an  entire  change  of  administration.  A  shift  like  this 
sent  the  prison  into  feverish,  suppressed  excitement. 

I  was  working  at  the  bolt  contract.  A  patrol 
guard  glided  to  my  bench  in  the  shop  and  silently 
beckoned  to  me.  There  is  something  mischievously 
sinister  in  the  hushed  voices  and  the  noiseless  tread  of 
men  in  prison.  Without  a  word,  without  even  know- 
ing where  I  was  going,  I  followed. 

I  was  taken  out  of  the  fourth  grade  when  I  arrived 
at  the  State  shop. 

"Think  you  could  play  a  tuba  solo  Sunday?"  the 
guard  asked.  "You're  going  back  to  your  place  in 
the  band." 

Musicians  are  scarce  enough  in  prison.  I  had  been 
one  of  the  dominant  notes  in  the  band  before  I  was 
thrown  into  solitary. 

Sunday  the  new  warden  was  to  publicly  take  office. 
Several  hundred  visitors  would  be  present.  The 
warden  would  make  his  speech  to  the  1,700  convicts. 
The  prison  band  would  furnish  entertainment. 

As  I  passed  through  the  chaplain's  office  into  the 
library,  where  the   band  met  before   going  to   the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  117 

rostrum,  Bill  Porter  stood  at  the  door.  Quite  digni- 
fied as  always,  but  his  face  set,  ahnost  despondent, 
Porter  greeted  me. 

^'Colonel,  you  are  looking  better.  Thank  God 
they  needed  the  tuba  solo."  He  lowered  the  tone 
that  was  always  hesitant  and  whispering.  "I  think, 
pardner,  you  are  in  a  religious  fervor.  There  is  a 
vacancy  in  the  chaplain's  office.  Do  you  think  you 
could  pray?" 

I  don't  know  whether  I  was  happier  at  the  pros- 
pect of  leaving  the  bolt  shop  or  in  the  assurance  that 
Porter  had  won  me  back  in  the  band  and  was  as 
loyal  to  me  as  I  would  have  been  to  him. 

"Pray!  Hell,  yes.  Bill.  Sure  I  can  pray  if  it 
will  get  me  off  the  contract." 

How  many  prayers  we  offered  just  to  get  us  "off 
the  contract."     Porter  smiled. 

"Never  think  that  I  forget  you,  colonel.  Believe 
me,  that  my  thoughts  were  with  you  every  time  a 
poor,  outraged  devil  sent  his  screams  up  from  the 
basement." 

I  looked  at  Porter,  surprised  at  the  tense  emotion 
in  his  voice.  His  hps  quivered  and  a  sort  of  gray 
blight  seemed  spreading  over  his  face. 

"I  can't  drag  out  much  longer,"  he  said. 

It  was  one  of  the  few  times  that  Porter  ever  voiced 
his  loathing  of  the  prison  system  of  punishments,  and 
yet  he  knew  perhaps  more  of  its  ghastly  outrages 
than  any  other  convict. 

Porter  had  already  been  night  clerk  at  the  hospital 
for  a  year  and  a  half.  He  saw  the  broken  bodies 
brought  up  from  the  basement  when  men  were  all 


118    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

but  done  to  death  in  vicious  floggings,  in  the  water 
and  in  the  hangings.  He  saw  the  doctors  work  over 
these  tortured  wrecks,  and  heal  them  just  so  that 
they  could  be  further  tormented. 

And  when  some  bitter  wretch,  driven  desperate 
and  insane,  would  attempt  suicide  in  his  cell.  Porter 
was  always  forced  to  accompany  the  prison  doctor 
and  aid  him  to  revive  the  con\4ct.  These  attempted 
suicides  were  almost  a  nightly  occurrence.  Often 
they  succeeded. 

Comparatively  easy  as  a  place  in  the  hospital  was, 
no  toil  could  have  corroded  into  the  heart  of  a  man 
of  Porter's  temperament  as  did  this  unabating  con- 
tact with  misery. 

He  used  to  come  into  the  post-office  and  sit  for 
hours,  dumb  with  a  bleak,  aching  despair.  In  the 
blithest  moments  of  his  success  in  New  York,  Porter 
could  never  shake  himself  free  from  the  clawing 
shadow  of  the  prison  walls. 

Porter  got  me  into  the  chaplain's  office,  but  I 
didn't  make  good.  I  couldn't  see  my  way  clear  to 
join  the  Sunday  school.  The  chaplain  took  a  violent 
grudge  against  me  the  day  after  my  arrival.  It  was 
noon  on  a  Wednesday  when  the  minister  and  two 
convicts  passed  through  the  outer  office  into  the 
chaplain's  private  study.  One  of  the  converts  was  a 
reirular  spittoon  bully,  in  for  horse-stealing;  the 
other  was  a  cheap  vaudeville  actor.  He  had  cut  his 
wife's  throat.    They  were  not  in  my  class. 

''We're  going  to  pray,"  the  chaplain  informed  me. 

^'That's  all  right  with  me,"  I  answered. 

He  scowled  at  me,  his  face  white  with  irritation, 


WITH  O.  HENRY  119 

his  puny  voice  shrilling  out,  "Aren't  you  going  in  to 

pray  i 

"No.    Not  with  that  crowd." 

The  nigger  horse-thief,  the  cut-throat  and  the  min- 
ister went  into  the  study  and  the  chaplain  stood 
while  the  convicts  threw  themselves  on  their  knees 
and  immediately  began  mumbling  and  moaning  to  the 
Creator. 

An  hour  later  I  was  sent  to  the  deputy  warden  for 
insolence   and   insubordination.      He    dismissed   the 

charge. 

"You  don't  have  to  pray  if  you  don't  want  to. 
That  ain't  what  you're  sent  to  the  pen  for." 

I  was  given  a  job  in  the  post-office.  Billy  Raidler, 
another  train-robber,  was  chief  post-office  clerk.  In 
this  new  position  I  had  considerable  liberty,  I  was 
near  to  the  hospital.  Bill  Porter,  Raidler  and  I 
cemented  a  friendship  that  lasted  until  the  death, 
first  of  Porter,  then  of  Raidler. 

Raidler  was  the  most  beloved  man  in  the  pen.  He 
had  been  the  terror  of  the  Indian  Territory  in  his  out- 
law days.  Yet  he  was  slender,  fair-haired,  soft-voiced 
as  a  girl.  He  had  an  impish  wit  and  the  most  oblig- 
ing nature  of  any  man  I  ever  met.  In  his  last  fight 
with  the  marshals  he  had  lost  three  fingers  of  his 
right  hand.  Two  bullets  caught  him  in  the  neck, 
knocking  his  spine  askew.  He  walked  as  though  he 
had  locomotor  ataxia. 

Bill  Porter  was  just  as  much  the  recluse  in  prison 
as  he  had  been  in  Honduras  and  Mexico.  He  did 
not  make  friends  readily.  Between  him  and  the 
world  was  an  impassable  barrier.    No  man  was  privj- 


120    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

leged  to  break  down  that  wall  which  hid  his  hopes, 
his  thoughts,  his  troubles.  And  so  he  liked  the  out- 
law prisoners  better  than  other  men.  They  had 
learned  the  fine  art  of  indifference  to  the  other  fel- 
low's affairs. 

In  the  post-office,  Billy  Raidler,  Porter  and  I 
passed  many  a  happy  hour.  I  came  to  see  a  new 
Porter,  who  afterw^ard  d-eveloped  into  O.  Henry,  the 
smile-maker. 

The  discovery  came  about  in  a  peculiar  manner. 

I  had  started  to  wTite  the  memoirs  of  my  bandit 
days.  Every  man  in  prison  is  writing  a  story.  Each 
man  considers  his  life  a  tragedy — an  adventure  of  the 
most  absorbing  interest.  I  had  given  my  book  a  fine 
title.  Raidler  was  enthusiastic  about  it.  He  gloried 
in  "my  flow  of  language." 

"The  Long  Riders"  was  galloping  ahead  at  a  furi- 
ous stride.  There  w^ere  chapters  in  it  with  40,000 
words  and  not  one  climax.  There  were  other  chap- 
ters with  but  seven  sentences  and  as  many  killings  as 
there  were  words. 

Raidler  insisted  that  a  man  be  shot  in  every  para- 
graj^h.  It  would  make  the  book  "go,"  he  said. 
Finally  I  came  to  a  halt. 

"If  I  have  any  more  men  killed,"  I  said,  "there'll 
be  nobody  left  on  earth." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,"  Raidler  said.  "You 
ask  Rill  Porter  about  it.    Pie's  writing  a  story,  too." 

At  that  moment  I  felt  myself  far  the  greater  writer 
of  the  two.  I  had  not  even  known  that  Porter  hoped 
to  write.    He  dropped  in  to  see  us  in  the  afternoon. 

"Bill  tells  me  you're  writing  a  story,"  I  said.   Por- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  121 

ter  looked  at  me  ouickly,  a  dark  flush  staining  his 
cheek. 

"No,  I'm  not  writing,  I'm  just  practicing,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  I  felt  really  sorry  for  the  man 
who  was  destined  to  write  the  finest  stories  America 
ever  read. 

"Well,  I'm  writing  one.  In  fact,  it's  almost  fin- 
ished.   Come  in  and  I'll  read  it  to  you." 

Porter  left  the  room  quickly.  I  never  saw  him  for 
two  weeks. 

A  desk  and  a  chair  inside  the  railing  of  the  prison 
drug  store — the  Ave  wards  of  the  hospital  grouped 
around  that  store  and  in  those  wards  from  50  to  200 
patients  racked  with  all  manner  of  disease.  The 
quiet  of  the  night  disturbed  v/ith  the  groans  of  broken 
men,  the  coughs  of  the  wasted,  the  frightened  gasp  of 
the  dying.  The  night  nurse  padding  from  ward  to 
ward  and  every  once  in  a  while  returning  to  the  drug 
store  with  the  crude  information — another  "con"  has 
croaked.  Then,  down  the  corridors  the  rattle  of  the 
wheelbarrow  and  the  negro  life  termer  bumping  the 
"stiff"  to  the  dead  house.  A  desk  and  a  chair  settled 
in  the  raw  heart  of  chill  depression! 

There  at  that  desk,  night  after  night,  sat  Bill 
Porter.  And  in  the  grisly  atmosphere  of  prison  death 
and  prison  brutality  there  bubbled  up  the  mellow 
smile  of  his  genius — the  smile  born  of  heartache,  of 
shame,  of  humiliation — the  smile  that  has  sent  its  rip- 
ple of  faith  and  understanding  to  the  hearts  of  men 
and  women  everywhere. 

When  it  first  caught  Billy  Raidler  and  me,  we 


122    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

cried  outright.  I  think  it  was  ahoiit  the  proudest 
moment  in  O.  Henry's  hfe.  He  had  come  into  the 
prison  post-office  on  a  Friday  afternoon.  It  was  just 
about  a  fortnight  after  I  had  offered  to  read  him  my 
memoirs. 

"Colonel,  would  you  mind  granting  me  an  audi- 
ence," he  said  in  the  bantering  formality  of  his  way. 
"I'd  appreciate  the  opinion  of  a  fellow-struggier.  I 
have  a  httle  scrap  here.  I'd  like  to  read  it  to  you  and 
Billy." 

Porter  was  usually  so  reticent,  usually  the  listener 
while  others  talked,  that  one  felt  a  warm  surge  of 
pleasure  whenever  he  showed  a  disposition  for  con- 
fidence. Billy  and  I  swerved  about,  eager  for  the 
reading. 

Porter  sat  on  a  high  stool  near  the  desk  and  care- 
fully drew  from  his  pocket  a  roll  of  brown  paper. 
He  had  written  in  a  big,  generous  hand  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  scratch  or  an  erasure  on  a  single  sheet. 

From  the  moment  that  Porter's  rich,  low,  hesitant 
voice  began  there  was  a  breathless  suspense  until 
suddenly  Billy  Raidler  gulped,  and  Porter  looked  up 
as  one  aroused  from  a  dream.  Raidler  grinned  and 
jabbed  his  maimed  hand  into  his  eye. 

"Damn  you.  Porter,  I  never  did  it  in  my  life  be- 
fore. By  God,  I  didn't  know  what  a  tear  looked 
like." 

It  was  a  funny  thing  to  see  two  train-robbers  blub- 
bering over  the  simple  story. 

Perhaps  the  convict  is  over-sentimental,  but  the 
queer  twist  in  Porter's  story  just  seemed  to  sneak  into 
the  heart  with  a  kind  of  overflowing  warmth. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  123 

It  was  "The  Christmas  Chaparral"  he  read  to  us. 
Both  Billy  and  I  could  understand  the  feelings  of  the 
cowpuncher  who  had  lost  out  in  the  wooing  of  the 
girl.  We  could  feel  his  hot  jealousy  toward  the 
peeler  who  won  the  bride.  We  knew  that  he  would 
keep  his  promise — we  knew  he  would  return  to  kill 
his  rival. 

And  when  he  comes  back  on  Christmas  Eve, 
dressed  as  a  Santa  Claus,  armed  to  bring  tragedy  to 
the  happy  ranch  house,  we  could  sympathize  with 
his  mood.  He  overhears  the  wife  say  a  word  in  his 
defense — he  hears  her  praise  the  early  kindness  of 
his  life.  He  walks  up  to  her— "There's  a  Christmas 
present  in  the  next  room  for  you,"  he  says,  and  leaves 
the  house  without  firing  the  shot  that  was  to  have 
ended  the  husband's  life. 

Well,  the  story  is  told  as  only  O.  Henry  can  rough 
in  the  picture.  Billy  and  I  could  see  ourselves  in 
the  cowpuncher's  place.  We  could  feel  ourselves 
respond  to  that  stray  beam  of  kindness  in  the  girl's 
thoughtless  praise.  We  could  feel  it  and  it  brought 
the  tears  to  our  calloused  old  cheeks. 

Porter  sat  there  silent,  pleased,  his  eyes  aglow 
with  happy  satisfaction.  He  rolled  up  the  manu- 
script and  climbed  down  from  the  stool. 

"Gentlemen,  many  thanks.  I  never  expected  to 
win  tears  from  experts  of  your  profession,"  he  said  at 
last.  And  then  we  all  fell  into  a  speculation  as  to 
what  the  story  should  bring  and  where  we  ought  to 
send  it.  We  felt  an  interest  in  its  fate.  "The  Long 
Riders"  and  its  many  buckets  of  blood  were  forgot- 
ten in  the  wizardry  of  "The  Christmas  Chaparral." 


124    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

With  the  fervor  of  hero- worshipers,  Raidler  and  I 
acknowledged  Bill  Porter,  the  genius. 

We  decided  to  send  the  story  to  the  Black  Cat. 
There  was  in  the  prison  at  this  time  a  cultured 
Frencliman,  a  banker  from  New  Orleans.  Through 
his  sister,  Porter's  stories,  bearing  the  New  Orleans 
address,  were  sent  to  the  editor. 

When  "The  Christmas  Chaparral"  was  sent  out, 
Billy  and  I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  weeks  to  go  by. 
We  were  sure  it  would  be  accepted  at  once.  At  least 
$75  was  the  price  we  thought  it  ought  to  bring.  It 
came  back. 

Years  later  I  peddled  my  own  story  from  editor 
to  editor.  Never  did  I  feel  the  angry  spasm  of  dis- 
appointment that  seized  me  when  Porter's  great  story 
was  rejected. 

I  knew  that  he,  too,  was  filled  with  a  bitter  regret 
He  had  counted  on  the  money.  He  wanted  to  send 
a  little  present  to  his  daughter,  Margaret.  Now  she 
would  have  to  wait.  It  cut  him  to  the  quick,  this 
failure  of  his,  as  a  father. 

But  he  said  very  little  when  Billy  handed  him  the 
package.  We  were  so  incensed  against  the  publishers, 
of  the  magazines,  we  wanted  him  to  blackHst  them 
in  the  future. 

"Colonel,  the  day  may  come  when  I  can  decline 
publication — at  present  I  don't  seem  to  have  the 
deciding  voice." 

And  he  went  back  to  his  desk  and  wrote  and  wrote. 
He  went  back  to  the  melancholy  prison  hospital,  to 
the  night  patrol  through  the  cell  ranges,  gathering 
his   material,    transmuting   the   gloom   through   the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  125 

O.  Henry  alchemy  into  the  sunny  gold  of  his  stories. 
Many  of  these  he  read  to  us  in  the  stolen  happiness 
of  Sunday  afternoons  at  the  "Recluse  Club," 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

O.   Henry,    bohemian;    the   Recluse    Club   in    the   prison;    the   vanishing 

kitchen;  the  tragedy  of  Big  Joe;  effect  on  O.  Henry; 

personality   of    a   genius. 

Porter  was  a  boliemian  in  heart,  in  soul,  in  tem- 
perament. Not  the  poser — he  had  neither  sympathy 
nor  kinship  with  the  temperamental  quacks  of  the 
artistic  world — but  a  born  original.  He  loved  free- 
dom and  unconventional  sociability.  In  this  buoy- 
ant atmosphere  he  could  warm  up,  whisper  out  his 
drolleries,  forget.  Even  in  the  prison  the  whimsical 
vagabond  in  him  asserted  itself.  He  founded  the 
"Recluse  Club." 

Six  convicts,  three  of  them  bank-robbers,  one  a 
forger  and  two  train-robbers,  made  up  its  member- 
ship. We  met  on  Sunday  in  the  construction  office. 
And  never  a  club  in  the  highest  strata  of  society  had 
graver,  brighter,  happier  discussion — never  an  epi- 
cure's retreat  served  a  more  delicious  m^nu  than  our 
Sunday  repasts. 

The  embezzlers  had  been  men  of  great  wealth. 
They  were  educated  and  polished.  It  was  a  fitting 
environment  to  bring  out  the  best  in  Bill  Porter. 
He  was  king  of  that  exclusive  club. 

It  was  a  Sunday,  three  weeks  after  I  had  been 
transferred  to  the  post-office,  that  I  was  invited  to 
join. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  127 

^'Slither  over,  colonel,"  Porter  whispered  to  me. 
"Ikey  will  show  yeu  the  way." 

An  odder  initiation  ceremony  never  was  held. 

Porter  met  me  at  the  door  of  the  construction  office 
and  with  elaborate  burlesque  paid  tribute  to  my  ac- 
complishments. "Here  is  a  financier  worthy  to  sit 
with  the  elect.  The  colonel  kills  with  a  deft  equanim- 
ity equaled  only  by  the  finesse  of  Louisa  in  seasoning 
the  gravy." 

Louisa  was  the  nickname  given  to  the  French 
gentleman  sent  to  the  Ohio  penitentiary  on  a  charge 
of  embezzlement.  He  was  dapper,  swarthy,  mannered 
Hke  a  prince — the  chief  clerk  in  the  construction 
office  and  the  man  responsible  for  the  magic  kitch- 
enette concealed  behind  the  walls  of  the  office. 

Louisa  was  official  chef  of  the  "Recluse  Club."  He 
turned  out  mince  pies  and  roast  beef  that  would  have 
made  the  eyes  of  Dives  bulge  with  envy.  He  meas- 
ured to  the  grain  all  his  ingredients  and  he  followed 
minutely  the  instructions  in  a  big  cook  book. 

If  the  prison  had  suddenly  been  changed  into  para- 
dise it  would  have  seemed  no  more  miraculous  than 
>the  scene  in  this  improvised  banquet  room.  A  fairy 
table,  decorated  with  wild  flowers  and  set  for  six,  was 
laden  w^ith  all  manner  of  delicacies — olives,  radishes, 
sugar,  cream,  white  bread,  lettuce,  tomatoes. 

In  an  armchair  sat  the  httle,  rotund  banker  from 
New  Orleans — the  one  who  had  accosted  me  the  day 
I  transferred  myself  to  the  cell  in  Bankers'  Row.  He 
was  such  a  sputtery,  rasp-voiced,  punctihous  trifle. 
Porter  could  not  abide  him.  Billy  Raidler  was  also 
sitting  in  comfortable  grandeur.     These  two  were 


128    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

exempt  from  labor — Billy  because  he  could  not  walk 
alone ;  Carnot  because  he  was  old  and  fussy  as  a  fat, 
spoiled  baby. 

Ikey  slippered  from  wall  to  wall,  his  ear  tuned  for 
the  sound  of  the  guard's  approach.  The  club  and  its 
opulent  layout  was  distinctly  against  prison  rules. 
At  a  moment's  signal,  gas  stove  and  its  range  could 
be  hidden  out  of  sight.  Louisa  was  an  architect  and 
draughtsman. 

A  false  wall  had  been  built  and  the  kitchenette 
with  full  equipment  was  hidden  like  a  long  telephone 
booth  behind  it.  It  was  stocked  with  silverware, 
napkins,  flavoring  extracts,  flour  and  every  necessity, 
enough  in  fact,  for  a  small  hotel.  All  had  been  stolen 
or  bargained  from  the  head  clerks  in  other  shops  and 
from  the  chief  cook  in  the  kitchen. 

Louisa  dodged  from  behind  the  door,  a  great  dish 
cloth  tied  about  his  waist. 

* 'Dinner  is  served,  gentlemen.  Make  yourselves  at 
home." 

It  was  Bill  Porter's  turn  to  wait  on  table.  Bill  in 
all  his  buoyant  sunniness  brought  on  the  roast  beef 
that  gala  Sunday.  It  seemed  to  give  him  a  whimsical 
satisfaction  to  wait  on  Raidler  and  me. 

"Colonel,  I  feel  more  at  home  holding  the  tray  for 
you  than  I  would  have  felt  holding  the  horses  that 
day,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear. 

Louisa,  the  chef,  carved.  I'll  remember  to  my  last 
breath  the  menu.  It  was  the  first  good  meal  I  had 
had  since  I  was  thrown  into  jail  to  await  trial  three 
years  before. 

We  had   a  tomato   soup   that  was   the   pride   of 


WITH  O.  HENRY  129 

Louisa's  art.  He  boasted  of  the  pinch  of  soda  added 
to  keep  the  milk  from  curdling.  And  there  was  corn 
and  green  peas  and  roast  potatoes,  a  mince  pie  and  a 
cold  bread  pudding  made  with  raisins  and  currants. 

I've  given  that  recipe  of  Louisa's  to  every  woman 
I  ever  met.  Not  one  of  them  could  turn  out  the 
delicacy  as  the  chef  of  the  "Recluse  Club"  did  it. 

Porter  had  drafted  the  rules  of  the  club.  A  copy 
lay  at  eadi  place  with  the  little  cartoons  he  made  of 
us.  Funny  little  verses  were  scrawled  under  the  fig- 
ures.   Every  Sunday  we  had  different  place  cards. 

Porter's  raillery  was  boundless.  Raidler  and  I 
were  the  only  ones  to  acknowledge  ourselves  guilty. 
Louisa,  Porter,  Ikey  and  old  Carnot  were  all  victims 
of  circumstances.  They  were  touchy  about  their 
pasts.  And  so  the  cartoonist  drew  them  as  cherubs, 
friars,  lilies  without  stain  and  the  dewdrops  glisten- 
ing on  their  white  sheafs. 

Not  one  of  those  men,  and  they  were  Porter's  equals 
at  least  in  social  position,  dared  to  take  liberties  with 
him.  I  think  they  held  him  in  a  sort  of  awe.  His 
dignity  was  invulnerable.  Old  Carnot  would  have 
liked  the  same  respect.  He  never  got  it.  Billy 
Raidler  never  tired  of  puncturing  his  pompous  self- 
esteem.  But  Billy  would  have  died  rather  than 
wound  Bill  Porter. 

Old  Carnot  did  not  want  any  one  even  to  mention 
the  fact  that  he  was  in  the  penitentiary.  He  would 
bluster  and  sputter  when  any  one  spoke  of  him  as  a 
convict.  Every  Sunday  there  was  an  argument  about 
it.  Raidler,  just  for  the  impish  love  of  teasing  the 
old  man,  w^ould  open  it. 


130    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"Now,  ]Mr.  Carnot,"  he  would  say,  "my  esteemed 
friend,  Bill  Porter,  and  I  propose  to  found  a  union 
of  ex-convicts  as  soon  as  we  are  discharged.  We  wish 
you  to  join." 

Carnot  would  get  red,  champ  his  teeth  together 
and  rustle  in  his  chair. 

"Don't  speak  of  it.  I  don't  wish  you  to  mention 
it."    His  pursy  lips  sent  out  a  shower,     I  ducked, 

"Colonel,  I  don't  know  why  you  are  contorting 
your  face  and  capering  about  so,"  the  old  man  turned 
on  me. 

"Well,  by  God,  your  honor,  I  don't  want  to  get 
drowned." 

Then  it  would  begin  all  over  again,  Carnot  pro- 
testing that  any  man  who  would  salute  him  as  an  ex- 
convict  would  be  shot  on  the  spot.  Xo  man  dreaded 
the  thought  of  that  stigma  more  than  Porter.  We 
had  many  talks  about  it.  He  hid  his  feeling  under 
a  light  banter. 

Once  in  a  while  the  veneer  cracked.  The  day  I  told 
him  about  the  ugly  tragedy  of  Big  Joe,  a  Creek  In- 
dian of  the  "Buck  Gang,"  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  faint.  His  face  was  usually  quiet  and  enigmatic 
in  its  expression.  This  day  it  got  ashen  and  rigid. 
He  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then  with  a  flash 
he  turned  the  subject.  Old  Carnot  would  not  have 
it.    There  was  almost  an  open  breach  between  them. 

Big  Joe  had  been  sick  at  the  hospital  for  months. 
One  night  the  word  went  around  that  he  had  croaked. 
A  burglar  friend  of  mine,  on  patrol  duty  at  the  hos- 
pital, came  over  to  the  post-office. 

"Jennings,  come  along  over  to  the  ward  with  me. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  131 

I  want  to  show  you  something,"  he  said  mysteriously. 

"What's  up?" 

*' They've  got  Big  Joe  tied  up  ready  for  the  wheel- 
barrow and  he  isn't  dead." 

"Hell,  no!" 

"Come  over  and  see." 

I  went  in  with  him.  Big  Joe  was  lying  in  his  cot, 
his  feet  tied  together,  a  handkerchief  over  his  eyes. 

"Look,  the  burglar  whispered.  He  took  out  his 
penknife  and  pricked  the  Indian  on  the  foot.  The 
knee  drew  up,  the  man  twitched  to  his  neck.  It  made 
me  sick  with  repulsion.    I  went  over  to  Porter. 

"Big  Joe  isn't  dead,"  I  said.     "Tell  the  croaker." 

"The  damn'  hellions  know  it,"  Porter  hissed.  "I 
told  him.  They'd  like  to  bury  us  all  ahve.  Damn 
them,  I'll  get  them  yet." 

He  turned  his  back  and  rushed  off.  I  went  back  to 
the  cot  where  the  Indian's  body  lay. 

Porter  came  back  with  the  night  doctor.  Big  Joe 
had  already  opened  his  eyes.  As  the  croaker  took  up 
his  wrist  to  feel  his  pulse  he  yanked  himself  suddenly 
to  one  side. 

"Drink — water!"  The  broken  mumble  seemed  to 
splinter  the  air.  The  four  of  us  stepped  back  with 
the  shock  of  this  whisper  from  the  lips  of  the  man 
tied  up  as  dead. 

The  doctor  himself  pulled  off  the  straps.  The 
burglar  ran  for  the  water.  I  went  back  to  the  post- 
office. 

The  next  night  Big  Joe  had  another  fit. 

"He's  dead  this  time."  The  croaker  was  still  shaky 
from  his  recent  experience.    "Let  him  stay  dead.    I 


132    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

don't  want  any  of  you  damn'  meddlers  to  monkey 
with  him." 

The  gigantic  body,  yellow  and  emaciated,  was 
carted  to  the  dead  house  and  laid  in  the  bottom  of  the 
trough.  This  trough  stood  on  the  cement  floor  and 
was  about  three  feet  deep.  The  stiff  was  placed  on 
it  and  cracked  ice  scattered  over  it.  The  body  was 
kept  a  day.  If  no  friends  called  for  it  the  doctors 
held  a  dissecting  symposium — what  was  left  of  the 
bones  was  dumped  into  a  rough  board  box  and  stuck 
into  a  hole  in  the  prison  graveyard. 

It  was  a  Saturday  night  when  Big  Joe  kicked  off. 
The  night  porter  used  to  go  whisthng  by  the  post- 
office,  jogging  the  wheelbarrow  to  the  dead  house. 
He  would  stop  for  a  word  with  Billy  and  me.  We 
would  look  out.  Sometimes  there  would  be  one  stiff 
with  its  arms  and  legs  dangling  over  the  sides  of  the 
cart.     Sometimes  there  were  two  or  even  three. 

"Big  Joe  done  got  it  fob  shuah  dis  time,"  he  sang 
out  to  us,  and  clattered  blithely  on. 

There  was  something  callous  and  appalling  about 
the  prison  attitude  to  the  stiffs.  The  men  were 
treated  as  so  much  refuse — they  got  no  more  respect 
than  a  dead  dog.  Big  Joe's  "comeback"  had  given 
me  an  odd  twist.    I  felt  spooky,  bitter,  depressed. 

I  went  over  to  the  dead  house  on  Sunday  morning. 
Curiosity  drew  me.  It  was  just  a  dark  shack,  'way 
off  near  the  gas  house.  The  patrol  guard  went  with 
me.    We  pushed  the  door  to. 

The  horror  of  the  thing  struck  upon  us.  It  was 
revolting  as  though  a  cold  clammy  hand  reached  up 
from  that  trough  and  smeared  us  with  blood.    A  kind 


WITH  O.  HENRY  133 

of  strangling  sensation  caught  me.  The  guard  hung 
to  my  waist,  his  teeth  chattering.  Big  Joe  had  been 
placed  in  the  bottom  of  the  trough.  He  had  "come 
to"  again. 

He  had  awakened  in  the  dead  house  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  He  had  tried  to  climb  out.  His  clawing, 
terrible,  long  arms  were  flung  forward.  His  body 
hung  over  the  board,  his  head  resting  on  the  cement, 
as  though  he  had  lost  his  balance  and  half  toppled 
out.  The  face,  one  cheek  pressed  against  the  ground, 
was  twisted  toward  us — the  mouth  agape,  the  eyes 
staring. 

I  went  over  to  the  club  shortly  after  12.  Louisa  and 
Porter  were  in  the  httle  box  kitchen.  Louisa  had  his 
dishrag  apron  tied  about  him.  Porter,  immaculate 
in  the  prison  gray,  was  wearing  a  rich  blue  necktie. 

The  clerk  in  the  State  shop  used  to  make  us  pres- 
ents in  return  for  favors.  We  wore  the  finest  grade 
of  underwear;  we  had  good  white  shirts.  Except  for 
the  black  stripe  on  the  trousers  we  could  look  like 
"dandies"  on  occasions.  It  was  always  an  occasion 
for  Porter.  Even  in  his  blackest  moods — and  he  had 
many  of  them  in  prison — ^he  was  fastidious  about  his 
appearance. 

Louisa  and  Porter  were  scrapping  like  a  couple  of 
old  women  over  the  roast.  Porter  was  a  bit  of  an 
epicure,  and  there  was  many  a  heated  argument  over 
culinary  niceties. 

"Here,  taste  it,  then,"  the  chef  jabbed  the  spoon 
betw^een  Porter's  teeth. 

"A  little  more  celery  salt,"  Porter  smacked  his 
tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  paused  a  mo-^ 


134.         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

merit  after  the  manner  of  the  queen's  taster,  and  gave 
his  opinion. 

"Now  here,  I  measured  it  three  times."  Louisa 
produced  the  cook  book  to  prove  it. 

"That  is  no  proof.  You  should  have  an  apothe- 
cary's scale  and  weigh  the  ingredients,"  Porter  was 
in  one  of  his  bubbling,  irrepressible  moods.  "Let 
the  colonel  judge  between  us."  He  turned  to  me, 
and  stopped,  with  the  spoon  clanking  to  the  floor. 
**By  God,  Al,  what  ails  you?" 

I  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  We  were  seated 
about  the  table.  They  pressed  me.  I  told  them  about 
Big  Joe.  I  couldn't  seem  to  keep  it  to  myself.  Por- 
ter jumped  up  and  slammed  his  chair  against  the 
wall.    Old  Carnot  commenced  to  sputter. 

"We  should  write  to  the  President  of  the  United 
States  about  it."  Carnot  would  never  stoop  to  any 
lesser  authority.    "It  is  an  outrage." 

Porter  came  back  to  the  table,  the  explosive,  un- 
usual outburst  over.  He  drew  in  his  lip  and  coughed 
' — a  habit  of  his. 

"I  think  the  summer  will  be  quite  warm,"  he 
offered. 

Carnot  \vould  not  have  it. 

"JMr.  Porter,  you  should  exercise  your  best  ability 
as  a  writer  on  this  subject.  You  should  enkindle  the 
world  about  it.  You  should  put  it  in  an  article  and 
send  it  broadcast." 

Porter's  cold  look  would  have  chilled  the  ardor  of 
any  other  suggestion-giver. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  he  answered  frig- 
idly.   "I  am  not  here  as  a  reporter.    I  shall  not  take 


WITH  O.  HENRY  135 

upon  myself  the  burden  of  responsibility.  This 
prison  and  its  shame  is  nothing  to  me." 

He  got  up  and  walked  into  the  kitchen.  I  fol- 
lowed him.  "There  are  some  obnoxious  people  here/^ 
His  voice  was  stifled  with  resentment.  "We  should 
eliminate  them."  | 

It  was  one  of  the  few  times  that  I  ever  saw  Bill 
Porter  openly  ruffled.  He  despised  tips  from  men  of 
Carnot's  caliber.  He  never  wanted  any  one  to  point 
out  a  story  to  him.  He  had  to  see  the  thing  himself. 
As  he  ssijs  in  "The  Duplicity  of  Hargreaves" — "All 
life  belongs  to  me.  I  take  thereof  what  I  want.  I 
return  it  as  I  can." 

With  Billy  Raidler  and  me  it  w^as  quite  different. 
Porter  liked  us.  He  would  sit  in  the  post-office  and 
deliberately  draw  out  from  us  accounts  of  the  outlaw 
days.  He  would  get  us  to  describe  the  train-robbers, 
he  would  deftly  prod  us  into  giving  elaborate  details 
even  to  the  very  slang  expressions  the  men  had  used 
in  their  talk.  I  never  saw  him  take  a  note,  but  his 
memory  was  relentless. 

The  day  I  told  him  about  Dick  Price,  a  fellow-con- 
vict, he  sat  quiet  for  a  long  time. 

"That  will  make  a  wonderful  story,"  he  said  at 
last. 

Dick  Price  is  the  original  of  the  immortal  Jimmy 
Valentine. 

Porter  came  into  the  post-office  just  after  the  as- 
tounding feat  had  been  accomplished.  Dick  Price, 
the  warden,  and  I  had  returned  from  the  offices  of 
the  Press-Post  Publishing  Company,  Price  had 
opened  the  safe  in  10  seconds. 


^  CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Story  of  convict  Dick  Price;  grief  for  his  mother;  her  visit  to  the  prison; 
the  safe-opening;   promise  of  pardon. 

Porter  gives  Dick  the  chance  in  the  stoiy  that  he 
never  had  in  life.  The  history  of  the  real  Jimmy  Val- 
entine, shadowed,  embittered,  done  to  death  in  the 
stir,  was  just  another  of  the  tragedies  that  ripped 
through  the  film  and  showed.  Bill  Porter  the  raw,  cruel 
soul  of  the  "upper  crust." 

Dick  Price  had  been  in  prison  ever  since  he  was  a 
little  fellow  of  11.  There  were  a  few  wretched  years 
in  the  outer  world.    It  was  not  freedom. 

Bill  Porter  took  but  one  incident  out  of  that  tragic 
life  for  his  story,  "A  Retrieved  Reformation."  His 
Jimmy  Valentine  is  a  rather  debonair  crook — but  in 
the  moment  when  he  throw^s  off  his  coat,  picks  up  his 
tools  and  starts  to  open  the  safe,  in  that  moment  there 
is  crowded  the  struggle  and  the  sacrifice  of  a  lifetime. 
It  goes  to  the  heart,  quick  and  piercing,  when  Jimmy's 
chance  of  happiness  seems  lost;  it  sends  the  breath 
into  the  throat  with  a  quiver  of  joy  when  he  wdns  out 
in  the  end.  Porter  has  touched  the  strings  so  deftly 
because  the  whole  shadow  of  Dick  Price's  broken  hfe 
hovers  in  the  background  of  the  story. 

Dick  was  what  convicts  call  a  "stir  bug."  He  had 
been  in  the  pen  so  long  he  had  become  morose,  sour, 
a  brooding  sort.  But  he  was  as  square  a  man  as  Clmst 


WITH  O.  HENRY  137 

ever  put  on  the  earth.  Dick  was  the  fellow  that  tried 
to  save  me  from  the  beating  and  the  contract  after  my 
attempt  to  escape.  I  had  done  him  a  little  favor  and 
he  was  ready  to  have  his  flesh  torn  to  ribbons  in  grati- 
tude. 

He  was  in  under  the  "habitual  criminal  act."  In 
Ohio  a  man  caught  at  his  third  offense  is  given  a  life 
sentence  in  the  penitentiary  and  denied  all  privileges. 
Only  the  man  that  has  been  half  bhnded  in  solitary, 
that  has  been  cooped  in  wretched  cells  and  denied  the 
right  to  read  or  write — only  the  fellow  that  has  had 
the  spirit  beaten  down  in  him  by  the  agonized  screams 
of  tortured  men,  can  know  what  Dick  Price's  sen- 
tence meant. 

He  was  about  20  when  he  was  thrown  into  prison 
on  his  third  offense.  And  because  it  was  the  third  he 
was  robbed  of  all  human  comforts.  He  couldn't  have 
a  book  or  a  paper.  He  wasn't  allowed  to  write  a  let- 
ter; he  wasn't  even  allowed  to  receive  one.  And  if 
there  was  a  kind,  anxious  soul  in  the  outer  world 
eager  to  hear  from  him,  to  see  him,  it  made  no  differ- 
ence. For  16  years  not  one  stray  word,  not  one  bit 
of  cheer  had  come  to  him  from  the  world. 

I  never  saw  anything  so  terrible  as  the  way  that 
fellow's  heart  was  breaking.  He  had  an  eternal  han- 
kering to  hear  from  his  old  mother.  It  whipped  him 
ceaselessly.  He  wanted  to  know  if  she  was  alive,  if 
she  had  to  work  as  hard  as  before,  if  she  thought  of 
him.  He  had  a  passion  to  get  a  word  from  her  that 
was  driving  him  mad. 

I  got  the  word  for  him.  And  he  was  i^ady  to  die 
for  me  in  his  gratitude.     Because  of  that  word  he 


138    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

opened  the  safe  of  the  Press-Post  Pubhshing  Com- 
pany. 

I  met  Dick  first  walking  about  the  cell  ranges  at 
night.  It  was  just  a  few  months  after  I  arrived.  I 
was  in  the  transfer  office  and  was  about  the  last  man 
to  be  locked  up.  Dick  had  been  there  so  long  the 
deputies  trusted  him  and  gave  him  passes  to  leave  his 
cell  and  wander  about  the  corridors.  I  used  to  see  his 
small,  nervous  figure  pacing  back  and  forth.  He  had 
a  keen,  dark  face  and  a  restless  gray  eye.  One  night 
I  came  upon  him  sitting  in  a  corner,  eating  a  piece  of 
pie. 

*'Have  a  slice,  pardner?"  he  called  to  me.  The 
other  men  shunned  Dick  a  bit  because  he  was  moody 
and  nerve-racked — because,  too,  he  had  a  sharp, 
almost  brilliant  mind,  much  superior  to  the  average 
convict. 

I  accepted,  and  it  was  then  that  he  told  me  of  his 
longing  for  news  of  his  mother.  "I  tell  you  it's  hell, 
to  think  the  way  she's  made  to  suffer.  I'll  bet  you 
she  stands  outside  these  infernal  walls  at  night — I'll 
bet  she'd  tear  her  heart  out  to  hear  from  me.  You 
know — " 

Dick  swung  into  his  story.  ]Men  in  prison  hunger 
for  conversation.  They  w411  tell  their  histories  to  any 
one  who  will  listen  to  them. 

Ijittle  Dick  was  a  gutter  snipe,  he  said.  His  father 
was  a  Union  soldier  He  died  of  delirium  tremens 
when  Dick  was  a  few  years  old.  After  that  the  kid 
just  belonged  down  in  the  alley  with  the  tin  cans. 
His  mother  took  in  washing.  She  tried  to  give  the 
boy  enough  to  eat.     She  sent  him  to  school.     Some- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  139 

times  there  was  soup  and  bread  for  dinner ;  sometimes 
Dick  took  his  meals  out  of  the  rubbish  piles. 

And  one  day  the  poor,  ravenous  little  ragpicker 
broke  into  a  box  car  and  stole  a  10-cent  box  of 
crackers. 

"And  they  sent  me  to  hell  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
for  that,"  a  look  of  bitterness  lashed  like  a  dark  wave 
over  his  face.  "I  might  have  put  these  to  good  use 
if  I'd  had  a  chance."  He  looked  down  at  his  hands. 
They  were  the  strongest,  most  perfectly  shaped  hands 
I  have  ever  seen.  The  fingers  were  long  and  tapered, 
muscular  yet  delicate.  "They  said  my  mother  didn't 
take  care  of  me.  They  sent  me  to  the  Mansfield 
reformatory  and  they  turned  me  out  a  master  me- 
chanic at  18." 

His  graduation  papers  were  of  no  value.  A  man 
named  E.  B.  Lahman  controlled  all  the  bolt  works 
in  the  Ohio  penitentia^}^  Convicts  loathed  him,  and 
because  he  knew  the  danger  of  employing  any  upon 
their  discharge,  he  made  it  a  rule  that  no  ex-convict 
would  be  given  work  in  his  shops.  Dick  Price  had  a 
job  there.  Somebody  found  that  he  had  been  dragged 
up  in  a  reform  school.     He  was  fired. 

He  couldn't  get  a  job.  His  mechanical  training 
made  him  adept  at  safe-manipulating.  He  cracked 
one,  took  a  few  hundred  dollars,  got  a  jolt  for  it. 

It  was  the  same  story  again  when  he  was  released. 
No  one  would  give  him  a  job.  He  could  starve  or 
steal.  He  cracked  another  safe,  got  caught  and  was 
given  life. 

"You  know,  the  old  woman  came  to  the  court," 
he  told  me.    "And,  gee,  I  can  hear  it  yet,  the  way  she 


140    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

bawled  when  they  took  me  away.  It's  just  awful. 
You  know,  Jennings,  if  you  could  write  to  her,  I'd 
die  for  you." 

I  managed  to  get  a  note  smuggled  out  to  her.  The 
most  pitiful  broken,  little  mispelled  scrawl  I  ever 
saw  came  back. 

And  w^hen  that  bent,  heart-broken  old  mother 
stumbled  across  the  guardroom  floor  and  stood  with 
her  feeble  hands  shaking  the  wicket,  I'd  like  to  have 
died.    I  couldn't  speak.    Neither  could  she. 

She  just  stood  there  with  the  tears  running  down 
her  rough  cheeks  and  her  poor  chin  trembling. 

Dick's  mother  had  a  faded  red  shawl  wrapped 
about  her  head.  She  was  twisted  and  bent.  A  bit 
of  gray  hair,  coarse  and  curly,  fell  over  her  ear.  She 
had  fixed  herself  up,  thinking  she  might  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her  boy. 

"And  they  won't  let  his  old  mother  see  the  lad,  my 
poor  little  Dick — the  poor  child!"  The  sobs  caught 
in  her  throat.  She  pressed  her  face  against  the 
wicket,  her  gnarled  wasted  hands  shaking  the  iron 
bars. 

The  poor  old  creature  was  just  crazy  for  a  sight  of 
her  son.  Dick  was  not  100  yards  away.  They 
wouldn't  let  these  two  have  that  scrap  of  joy.  Not 
in  four  million  years  could  the  law  understand  the 
agony  it  had  wrought. 

"But  I  thought  I  might  catch  the  look  of  him,  by 
chance,  maybe."  She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  pitiful 
hope  in  her  dim  eyes.  It  hurt  the  heart  to  wound 
the  poor  creature.  I  had  to  tell  her  that  Dick  could 
not  come,  that  I  had  sent  for  her,  that  I  would  tell 


WITI^  O.  HENRY  141 

Dick  anything  she  waiited  to  say,  that  she  must  not 
let  the  guards  know  whi)  she  was. 

*'Dick  is  the  foreman  of  the  machine  shop  and  the 
smartest  man  in  the  prison,"  I  told  her.  A  prideful 
smile  came  like  a  sunbeam  into  her  eye. 

"Sure,  I  know  it,  that  pert  he  was  a  baby."  She 
began  to  grope  into  the  pocket  of  her  skirt  and 
brought  out  an  envelope  tied  in  red  ribbon.  Care- 
fully wrapped  in  brown  paper  were  a  couple  of  pic- 
tures. One  was  of  a  big-eyed,  laughing  youngster 
of  four  or  five. 

"A  prettier  bairn  never  drew  breath.  'Tis  happy 
we  were  in  that  time.  'Twas  before  the  drink  got  the 
better  of  poor  John." 

The  other  picture  was  of  Dick  just  before  he  had 
been  arrested  the  last  time.  He  was  a  boy  of  19. 
The  face  was  sensitive,  clean-looking,  determined. 

"He  doesn't  look  chipper  like  that  now,"  she  looked 
at  me  hoping  I  would  contradict  her  fears.  "'Twas 
the  gay  tongue  that  he  had  and  the  laugh  always  in 
his  heart.  Such  a  tale  as  he  would  be  telling  me  of 
the  good  home  he  would  buy.  The  poor  child,  does 
it  go  very  hard  on  him  in  here,  he  was  that  fond  of  a 
cheery  place?" 

Fifty  questions  she  asked  me.  Every  answer  was 
a  lie.  The  truth  would  have  killed  her  as  it  was 
ending  Dick. 

I  told  her  Dick  was  happy.  I  told  her  he  was 
well.  I  said  he  might  get  a  pardon.  It  was  all  I 
could  do  to  talk.  I  knew  that  Dick  was  doomed. 
He  was  actually  wasted  with  tuberculosis.    But  the 


142    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

promises  seemed  to  give  her  comfort.  She  stood 
silent  a  moment. 

"Will  you  be  after  telling  him  his  old  mother's 
prayers  are  with  him?  Ard  just  let  on  to  him  that 
I  come  down  by  the  walls  every  blessed  night  to 
be  that  near  to  him." 

Poor  Dick,  he  was  waiting  in  the  range  for  me 
that  night.  He  never  said  a  word.  He  just  looked 
at  me.  I  told  him  everything  she  had  said.  I  told 
him  how  pretty,  like  a  grandmother,  she  looked.  I 
said  that  she  came  down  to  the  prison  at  night  to 
pray  for  him.  He  didn't  speak.  He  walked  off. 
Four  times  he  came  back  and  tried  to  thank  me. 
At  last  he  sat  down,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  burst  out  crying. 

It  was  only  a  few  months  later  that  I  was  caught 
trying  to  escape.  Dick  Price  tried  to  take  the  pun- 
ishment in  my  stead.  He  went  to  the  deputy  and 
swore  he  had  given  me  the  saws.  It  was  a  guard 
who  had  done  it.  If  I  had  snitched  on  him  he  would 
have  got  ten  years. 

The  deputy  knew  that  Dick  had  lied.  I  told  him 
that  he  did  it  in  gratitude — that  I  had  got  a  letter 
to  his  mother  and  he  wanted  to  save  me  from  the 
contract. 

So  I  cleared  him  of  the  charge,  but  he  was  re- 
duced to  the  fourth  grade  and  compelled  to  fall  in 
with  the  lockstep.  It  was  going  pretty  hard  with 
him.  His  work  in  the  shop  was  exacting.  Some- 
times he  would  get  a  fit  of  coughing  that  left  him 
weak  for  an  hour. 

When  I  was  transferred  to  the  post-office,  I  used 


WITMO.  HENRY  143 

to  go  over  and  visit  D\ck.  I  had  money  then,  too, 
and  we  used  to  swap  Wes  and  doughnuts.  Dick 
would  talk  about  the  rerprm  school.  The  things  he 
told  were  appalling.  They  made  me  bitter  with 
hatred.  Little  fellow^s  of\ll  or  12  were  just  put 
through  a  training  school  for  hell. 

Several  times  I  tried  to  get  another  letter  to  the 
old  woman.     Something  always  happened. 

After  I  had  been  appointed  private  secretary  to 
the  warden,  it  looked  as  though  Dick's  chance  had 
come.  He  performed  a  service  of  great  value  to 
the  State.  He  saved  the  papers  of  the  Press-Post 
Pubhshing  Company.  The  Governor  promised  him 
a  pardon. 

The  Press-Post  Publishing  Company  had  been 
placed  in  the  hands  of  a  receiver.  Wholesale  charges 
of  thievery  v/ere  bandied  about.  The  stockholders 
had  been  robbed.  They  blamed  the  directors,  the 
directors  put  it  up  to  the  treasurer.  They  secured 
a  w^arrant  for  his  arrest.  He  locked  the  safe  and 
fled. 

Columbus  was  agog  over  the  scandal.  Some  of 
the  biggest  men  in  the  city  were  implicated.  The 
court  had  to  get  the  papers  out  of  the  safe.  It  oc- 
curred to  somebody  in  authority  that  there  might 
be  a  cracksman  in  the  pen  who  could  help  them 
out  of  the  difficulty.  The  warden  was  very  eager 
to  accommodate  them. 

"Is  there  any  fellow  here  who  can  do  it?"  he  asked 
me.  Warden  Darby  was  a  prince.  He  had  im- 
proved prison  conditions.     The  men  all  liked  him. 

"There  are  perhaps  forty  here  who  can  do  it.     I 


144    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

can  do  it  myself.  A  little  ritroglycerine  turns  any 
combination." 

"They  can't  take  the  risk  of  dynamite.  They  want 
the  papers  recovered  intact" 

I  thought  of  Dick  Price.  He  had  told  me  of  the 
method  of  safe-cracking  ^^hich  he  had  originated.  He 
could  open  any  combination  on  earth  in  from  ten 
to  fifteen  seconds  with  his  bare  hands.  A  dozen  times 
he  had  told  me  of  the  feat. 

"See,  I  filed  my  nails  to  the  quick,"  he  said,  "cross- 
wise through  the  middle,  until  I  filed  them  down  to 
the  nerv^e.  It  made  them  sensitive.  I  could  feel  the 
slightest  jar.  I  held  those  fingers  over  the  dial.  I 
turned  the  combination  with  my  right  hand.  The 
quiver  of  the  tumbler  passing  its  mark  strikes  through 
the  nerves.  I  would  stop,  turn  backward.  It  never 
failed." 

I  wondered  if  Dick  would  do  the  trick  now  for 
the  State.  "Could  you  get  a  pai'don  for  him?"  I 
asked  the  warden.  Dick  was  really  dying  with  his 
cough. 

"If  he'll  do  it,  I'll  move  heaven  and  earth  to  win 
it." 

I  went  to  Dick.  I  told  him  he  might  get  a  pardon. 
His  thin  face  flushed. 

"She'd  be  glad.  Hell,  Al,  I'd  do  anything  for 
you." 

The  warden  got  a  closed  carriage.  Early  that 
afternoon  the  three  of  us  went  to  the  ofiice  of  the 
Press-Post  Publishing  Company.  Dick  wanted  me 
with  him. 

We  scarcely  spoke.    There  was  a  strained,  nervous 


WITH  O.  HENRY  145 

hush  over  us.  The  warden  fidgeted,  Ht  a  cigar,  and 
let  it  go  out  without  taking  a  puff.  He  was  worried. 
So  was  I.  I  was  afraid  Dick  couldn't  make  good. 
I  figured  that  he  probably  had  lost  his  art  through 
disuse.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  have 
exaggerated.  Sixteen  years  in  prison  knocks  the 
props  from  a  man's  brain  often  enough. 

The  warden  had  wired  Governor  George  K.  Nash 
of  Ohio.  He  promised  the  pardon  if  the  safe  was 
opened.  What  a  sore  humiliation  to  Warden  Darby 
if  Dick  failed! 

Not  a  word  had  been  said,  but  Dick  looked  up 
with  that  young,  magnetic  smile  of  his.  "Don't 
Worry,  Al,"  he  grinned.  "I'll  rip  hell  out  of  it  if 
it's  made  of  cast  iron  and  cement."  His  confidence 
made  us  feel  easier. 

"Give  me  the  file."  Dick  had  cautioned  me  to 
get  him  a  small,  rat-tailed  file  and  to  make  sure  that 
the  edges  wxre  keen.  I  handed  it  to  him.  He  scru- 
tinized it  as  though  he  were  a  diamond-buyer  look- 
ing for  a  yellow  speck  in  a  gem.  Then  he  started 
to  work.     The  warden  and  I  shuddered. 

Half  way  down  the  nail  across  the  middle  he  drew 
the  file.  His  nails  were  deep  and  beautifully  shaped. 
Back  and  forth  he  filed  until  the  low^r  half  of  the 
nail  was  separated  from  the  upper  by  a  thin  red 
mark.  He  filed  to  the  quick.  Soon  only  the  lower 
half  of  the  nail  remained. 

Light  and  deft,  his  sensitive  hand  worked.  I 
watched  his  face.  It  didn't  even  twitch.  He  was 
completely  absorbed  in  the  process  and  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  the  warden  and  me.     Once  or  twice 


146    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

he  champed  his  teeth  and  his  breath  came  a  bit  short. 
The  fingers  bled  a  httle.  He  took  out  his  handker- 
chief and  dabbed  them  clean.  Then  he  sat  back.  He 
was  finished. 

I  took  his  hand  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  a  neat 
job,  but  cruel.  The  index,  middle  and  third  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  looked  as  though  the  nails  had  been 
pared  half  off  and  the  quick  bruised  and  sand- 
papered. 

Dick  was  so  tense  with  suppressed  excitement  that 
he  bolted  out  of  the  carriage  as  soon  as  it  stopped 
and  walked  so  quickly  the  warden  and  I  had  to  run 
to  keep  pace  with  him.  When  we  reached  the  office 
about  a  dozen  men  were  waiting. 

"Is  this  a  show,  Al?'*  Dick  snapped  the  words 
out.  He  was  full  of  impatience.  We  stood  around 
about  ten  minutes.  Dick  looked  at  me  angrily.  I 
was  beset  with  alarm  anyway.  I  took  his  look  to 
mean  that  his  fingers  wouldn't  respond  if  we  didn't 
hurry.  I  ran  over  to  the  warden,  bumping  against 
two  gossipy,  stupid  looking  officials. 

"Hurry  up  or  the  job  is  up."  His  face  took  on 
the  scaredest,  grayest  shadow  I  ever  saw.  Dick  put 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  laughed.  I  whispered  to 
the  warden  that  the  men  would  have  to  remain  out- 
side. Only  two  State  representatives,  the  warden, 
Dick  and  I  went  into  the  room  where  the  safe  was 
kept. 

"That's  it,"  one  of  the  men  said. 

Dick  went  over  to  it.  There  wasn't  a  breath  of 
hesitation  in  his  answer. 

"Take  the  time,  Al."     There  was  a  chuckle  of 


WITH  O.  HENRY  147 

triumph  in  the  challenge.  His  thin  face  was  quiet 
as  a  statue's.  The  cheekbones  were  smudged  with 
red  and  his  eyes  unnaturally  brilliant. 

He  kneeled  before  the  safe,  put  his  bruised  fingers 
across  the  dial,  waited  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
the  combination.  I  watched  every  quiver  of  his 
strong,  delicate  hands.  There  was  the  slightest  pause, 
his  right  hand  went  backward.  He  turned  the  dial 
again,  pulled  the  knob  gently  toward  him.  The  safe 
was  opened! 

The  miracle  seemed  to  strike  everyone  dumb.  The 
room  was  stiller  than  silence.  It  was  spellbound. 
The  State  officials  stood  as  though  riven.  I  looked 
at  my  watch.  It  was  just  twelve  seconds  since  Dick 
had  begun. 

He  got  up  and  walked  off.  The  warden  sprang 
toward  him.  The  tears  were  crowding  into  Darby's 
eyes.  His  face  was  flushed  with  pride.  He  put  his 
arm  on  Dick's  shoulder. 

"That  was  fine,  lad.     God  bless  you!" 

Dick  nodded.     He  was  an  indifferent  sort. 

On  the  ride  back  to  the  pen  the  warden  leaned 
over  and  put  his  hand  on  Dick's.  "You're  the  noblest 
fellow  God  ever  made,"  he  said.  "If  they  gave  me 
the  deal  you  got,  hell  itself  wouldn't  have  made  me 
do  it." 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  started  to  speak. 
His  lip  trembled.  He  looked  out  of  the  carriage 
window,  watching  the  people  and  the  houses.  He 
couldn't  keep  his  glance  from  the  streets.  He  was 
leaning  forward  as  though  fascinated. 

"Look  at  that,   look  at  that!"     He   caught  me 


148    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

quickly  and  pointed  to  a  little  boy  of  ten  or  so  carry- 
ing a  rollicking  youngster  of  three  or  four.  I  saw 
nothing  unusual  in  the  spectacle.  Dick  sank  back 
as  though  a  vision  had  passed. 

*' That's  the  first  kid  I've  seen  in  sixteen  years." 
He  didn't  look  out  again.  We  said  nothing  further 
during  the  drive  back  to  the  prison. 

The  next  morning  every  newspaper  in  Columbus 
was  full  of  the  sensational  story.  The  warden  had 
given  his  word  to  Dick  that  the  process  would  not 
be  revealed.  Not  even  the  two  men  who  had  watched 
knew  how  the  feat  was  accomplished.  To  them  it 
seemed  as  witchcraft.  All  sorts  of  explanations  were 
given. 

A  prisoner  in  the  Ohio  Penitentiary,  serving  a  life 
term — a  prisoner  who  had  been  sent  up  as  a  boy 
and  who  was  now  dying  had  opened  the  safe,  with 
a  steel  wire,  one  daily  said.  Another  paper  said  he 
used  a  paper-cutter.  They  were  all  mystified.  Only 
one  spoke  of  the  pardon  promised  the  convict.  I  went 
to  the  warden  about  it. 

* 'Dick's  cough  is  pretty  bad.  They  ought  to  hurry 
it  up." 

"They  will  hurry,"  Darby  promised.  I  know  he 
meant  what  he  said.  I  brought  the  word  to  Dick. 
He  was  back  at  the  machine  shop. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said,  in  a  fit  of  morose  indiffer- 
ence. *T  don't  believe  them.  I  did  it  for  you,  Al." 
He  looked  up  quickly.  "I  wonder  if  the  old  woman 
saw  the  paper.  I'd  like  her  to  know  I  did  it.  It 
would  give  her  a  sniff  over  the  neighbors.     Could 


WITH  O.  HENRY  149 

you  get  her  to  know?"     He  walked  to  his  cell  and 
turned. 

"Al,"  he  said,  * 'don't  worry  about  me.  I  know 
I'll  never  get  the  pardon.  I'm  about  done  in,  any- 
how." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Interest  of  O.  Henry;  Price  the  original  of  Jimmy  Valentine;  the  pardon 
denied;   death  of  the  cracksman;   the  mother  at  the  prison  gate. 

When  the  cell  door  closed  on  Dick  I  stood  watching 
the  range,  hoping  he  would  come  out  again.  In  prison 
men  grow  superstitious.  I  wondered  if  his  bitter  con- 
viction that  the  pardon  would  never  be  granted  was 
a  premonition.  I  went  back  to  the  office — the  chill 
breath  of  fear  putting  down  the  ardent  hope  the 
w^arden's  promise  had  raised. 

Every  man  in  the  pen  knew  what  Dick  had  done. 
They  talked  about  it,  advancing  the  most  fantastic 
theories  as  to  Dick's  method. 

Bill  Porter  came  over  to  the  warden's  office  that 
night.  His  visits  were  always  welcome.  There  was 
in  Bill's  warm,  quiet  humor,  a  sunny  cheer,  an  up- 
lifting happiness  that  seemed  to  catch  one  by  the  neck 
of  the  spirit  and  shake  him  free  from  the  harassing 
pettiness  of  prison  life. 

When  Bilty  Raidler  and  I  could  not  rouse  eack 
other,  we  kept  our  ears  tuned  for  Bill's  voice  at  the 
door.  He  would  come  in,  sniff  the  moodiness  in  the 
air  and  breeze  it  away  with  a  dash  of  his  buoyant 
gaiety. 

Bill's  humor  was  not  the  off  spark  of  happiness,  but 
of  the  truth  as  he  saw  it.  He  was  not  an  incorrigible 
optimist.    There  were  times  when  silent  gloom  hov- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  151 

ered  like  a  black  wraith  about  him.  But  he  had  an 
abiding  faith  in  the  worth  of  hfe  and  a  sane,  poised 
viewpoint  that  all  the  cruel  injustice  of  his  prison 
sentence  could  not  distort. 

Bill  accepted  hfe  on  its  own  terms.  There  was  in 
him  none  of  the  futile  cowardice  that  quarrels  with  the 
bargain  of  existence;  mocks  and  sneers  and  exhausts 
itself  in  self-pity.  To  him  hfe  was  but  a  colossal 
experiment  marked  by  milhons  of  inevitable  failures, 
but  destined,  none  the  less,  for  an  ultimate  triumph. 
His  heart  was  crushed  in  prison,  but  his  mind  did 
not  lose  its  clear,  unbiased  insight.  He  would  send 
out  a  word,  a  phrase  that  seemed  to  puncture  through 
the  film  of  our  dissatisfaction.  The  grotesque  world, 
fabricated  of  depression,  set  itself  aright  and  we  were 
compelled  to  laugh  and  agree  with  Bill's  droll  hon- 
esty. 

''Colonel,  I  surmise  you  were  Pandora's  imp  when 
the  Post's  box  of  troubles  was  opened?"  He  handed 
me  an  account  he  had  just  read  in  one  of  the  evening 
papers.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him 
manifest  the  slightest  curiosity. 

I  told  him  about  Dick.  He  wanted  to  know  ex- 
actly how  the  safe  had  been  opened.  The  thought 
of  a  man  filing  his  nails  to  the  quick  and  then  filing 
until  the  nerves  were  exposed  bothered  him.  He 
had  a  dozen  questions  to  ask. 

"I  should  think  he  could  have  taken  an  easier 
way,"  he  said. 

"Suppose  he  had  sandpapered  the  ball  of  his  fin- 
gers? It  would  be  less  cruel,  do  you  think  it  would 
be  as  effective?    Did  it  seem  to  pain  him?    He  must 


152    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

be  a  fellow  of  enormous  grit.  B-r-r-r!  I  couldn't 
do  it  even  if  it  would  open  the  bars  of  our  little  pri- 
vate hell  here.  What  is  Dick  Price  like?  What 
*gave  liim  the  idea  in  the  beginning?" 

I  was  amazed  at  his  gossipy  quizzing. 

"Hell,  man,  you  must  be  first  cousin  to  the  Spanish 
Inquisition,"  I  rallied.  ''Why  are  you  so  much  in- 
terested?" 

"Colonel,  this  is  a  wonderful  episode,"  he  said.  "It 
will  make  a  great  story." 

I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  such  a  light.  Bill's 
mind  was  ever  on  the  alert.  It  was  like  some  wizard 
camera  with  the  lens  always  in  focus.  JVIen,  their 
thoughts  and  their  doings,  were  snapped  in  its  tire- 
less eye. 

All  life,  as  he  tells  us  in  "The  Duplicity  of  Har- 
graves,"  belonged  to  him.  He  took  thereof  what  he 
pleased  and  returned  it  as  he  would. 

Once  he  had  taken  it,  it  was  his.  He  stored  it 
up  in  his  mind.  When  he  called  upon  it,  it  came 
forth  bearing  the  stamp  of  his  own  originality. 

Bill  took  no  notes.  Once  in  a  while  he  would  jot 
a  word  or  two  down  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  a  corner 
of  a  napkin,  but  in  all  of  our  rambles  together  I 
never  noticed  the  pencil  much  in  evidence.  He  pre- 
ferred to  work  his  unfaihng  memory. 

It  seemed  to  have  boundless  space  for  his  multi- 
tudinous ideas.  He  kept  them  mentally  pigeonholed 
and  tabulated,  ready  to  be  taken  out  and  used  at  a 
moment's  notice.  It  was  years  before  he  made  Dick 
Price  immortal  in  the  story  of  Jimmy  Valentine.  I. 
asked  him  why  he  had  not  used  it  before. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  153 

"IVe  had  it  in  mind,  colonel,  ever  since  you  told 
me  of  it,"  he  answered.  "But  I  was  afraid  it  would 
not  go.  Convicts,  you  know,  are  not  accepted  in  the 
best  society  even  in  fiction." 

Porter  had  never  met  Dick  Price.  One  night  I 
brought  them  together  in  the  warden's  office.  It  was 
odd  to  note  the  instantaneous  sympathy  between  these 
two  unapproachable  men. 

Both  held  aloof  from  the  other  prisoners ;  Dick  be- 
cause he  was  moody,  Bill  because  of  his  reticence. 
And  yet,  between  the  two  there  seemed  to  spring  up 
an  immediate  understanding. 

Porter  had  brought  over  a  new  magazine.  He  was 
privileged  to  receive  as  many  as  he  liked.  He  handed 
it  to  Dick.  The  fellow  looked  up,  a  glance  of  wistful 
swiftness  darting  across  his  flushed  face. 

"I've  hardly  seen  one  since  I've  been  here,"  he 
said,  snatching  it  quickly  and  sticking  it  under  his 
coat.  Porter  did  not  understand.  When  Dick  left, 
I  told  him  what  his  sentence  had  been — that  he  could 
not  receive  a  book,  a  visit  or  even  a  letter. 

"Colonel,  do  they  starve  a  man's  soul  and  kill  his 
mind  hke  that?"  He  said  nothing  more.  He  seemed 
shocked  and  bitter.  In  a  moment  he  got  up  to  go. 
At  the  door  he  turned. 

"Well  for  him  that  he  has  not  much  longer  to 
live." 

The  words  sent  a  gust  of  white  fury  over  me.  I 
began  to  fear  again.  I  went  over  to  the  ranges  every 
night  to  see  Dick.  He  was  getting  worse.  I  begged 
the  warden  to  press  his  case. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  Governor  was  to 


154    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

pass  upon  it.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 
to  sign  it.  Dick  had  performed  his  part  of  the  bar- 
gain. The  State  could  now  pay  off  its  obHgation. 
I  told  Dick. 

"You  can  have  a  nice  little  feed  with  the  old  woman 
day  after  tomorrow/'  I  said.  He  didn't  answer.  He 
didn't  want  me  to  know  he  hoped,  but  in  spite  of 
himself  his  breath  came  hurriedly  and  he  turned  his 
back  quickly. 

I  knew  then  that  this  silent,  grateful  fellow  had 
been  waiting  and  counting  on  that  pardon.  I  knew 
that  the  thought  of  freedom  and  a  few  years  of  peace 
had  sustained  him  in  all  the  suffering  of  these  last 
months. 

The  next  morning  I  got  the  word  from  the  war- 
den.    The  pardon  had  been  denied. 

When  the  warden  gave  me  that  word  I  felt  as 
though  a  black  wall  had  dropped  suddenly  before 
me,  cutting  off  the  light  and  the  air.  I  felt  shut-in, 
smothered,  dumb. 

What  would  poor  Dick  do  now?  What  would  he 
think  of  me?  If  I  had  not  told  him  it  was  coming 
up  I  might  have  jollied  him  along.  But  he  knew. 
He  would  be  waiting  for  me.  All  day  he  would  be 
thinking  of  it.  I  would  have  to  see  him  in  the  corri- 
dors that  night. 

When  I  went  into  his  range,  there  he  was,  pacing 
up  and  down  the  corridor.  I  looked  at  the  stooped, 
emaciated  form.  The  prison  clothes  hung  from  his 
bones  as  though  he  were  a  peg.  His  haggard  face 
turned  upon  me  a  look  of  such  pathetic  eagerness 
I  felt  my  courage  sinking  in  a  cold,  speechless  misery. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  155 

I  tried  to  tell  him.  The  words  got  caught  in  the 
gulp  in  my  throat. 

The  flush  faded  from  his  dark  cheek  until  his  skin 
looked  the  color  of  a  gray  cinder,  with  the  over-bril- 
liant eyes  glaring  forth  like  burning  coals.  He  un- 
derstood. He  stood  there  staring  at  me  like  a  man 
w^ho  has  heard  his  own  death  sentence.  And  I  could 
not  say  a  word  to  him.  After  a  moment,  age-long 
with  its  dull  agony,  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"It's  all  right,  Al,"  his  voice  was  a  choking  whis- 
per. "I  don't  care.  Hell,  it  doesn't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  me." 

But  it  did.  It  finished  him.  It  broke  his  heart. 
He  hadn't  the  courage  to  fight  it  out  any  longer.  A 
month  later  they  took  him  to  the  prison  hospital. 

He  was  dying.  There  was  no  chance  of  a  cure. 
I  wanted  to  write  to  his  old  mother.  But  it  would 
only  have  pained  her.  They  wouldn't  have  let  her 
come  to  him.  The  w^arden  couldn't  break  the  State's 
law.  So  I  just  went  to  see  him  every  few  nights. 
I  sat  and  talked  to  him.  As  I  would  come  up  to 
his  cot  he  would  put  out  his  hand  and  grin.  And 
when  I  looked  into  those  quick,  intelligent,  game 
eyes,  a  stab  of  pain  went  through  me.  He  never 
spoke  of  his  old  mother  now. 

At  this  time  I  was  a  somewhat  privileged  character 
in  the  prison.  As  the  warden's  secretary,  I  could 
visit  any  department  at  will.  Otherwise  Dick  Price 
might  have  died  and  I  would  never  have  had  even 
one  chance  to  see  him. 

When  a  convict  wxnt  to  the  hospital  he  was  cut 
off  from  all  communication  with  his  former  fellows. 


156    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Men  lay  sometimes  for  months  in  their  cots  without 
ever  a  word  from  the  only  friends  they  had.  They 
suffered  and  died  withoi;t  one  touch  of  human  sym- 
pathy. 

I  was  the  only  visitor  Dick  had.  Men  had  called 
him  a  *'stir  bug"  because  of  his  erratic,  moody  ways — 
because,  too,  of  liis  uncanny  genius  as  a  mechanic. 
As  he  la}^  there  coughing  his  life  away,  he  was  the 
gentlest  and  the  calmest  soul  in  the  prison.  He 
viewed  his  suffering  and  liis  certain  death  as  a  spec- 
tator might  have.  The  queerest,  oddest  fancies  pos- 
sessed him.  One  night  he  turned  to  me  with  a  whim- 
sical dreaminess  in  his  voice. 

"Al,  why  do  you  suppose  I  was  born?"  he  asked. 
"Would  you  say  that  I  had  ever  lived?" 

I  couldn't  think  of  any  answer  to  make.  I  knew 
that  I  had  lived  and  got  a  lot  of  joy  out  of  it.  I 
wasn't  sure  about  Dick.  He  didn't  wait  for  my 
verdict. 

* 'Remember  that  book  your  friend  Bill  slipped 
me?  I  read  every  story  in  it.  It  showed  me  just 
how  I  stack  up.  It  told  me  what  a  real  life  might 
mean.  I'm  36  years  old  and  I'm  dying  without  ever 
having  lived.     Look  at  this,  Al." 

He  handed  me  a  scrap  of  paper  with  a  long  list 
of  short  phrases  on  it. 

"Those  are  the  things  I've  never  done.  Think  of 
it,  Al.  I  never  saw  the  ocean,  never  sang,  never 
danced,  never  went  to  a  theatre,  never  saw  a  good 
painting,  never  said  a  real  prayer 

"Al,  do  you  know  that  I  never  talked  to  a  girl 
in  my  life?    Never  had  one  of  them  so  much  as  give 


WITH  O.  HENRY  157 

me  a  kind  look?  I'd  like  to  figure  out  why  I  was 
born." 

There  came  a  week  when  I  was  so  busy  I  did  not 
go  to  see  him.  One  night  very  late  I  dropped  into 
the  post-office  to  talk  to  Billy  Raidler.  Down  the 
alley  toward  the  dead  house  came  the  big  negro  por- 
ter, whistling  and  shuffling  along.  Billy  and  I  used 
to  look  out,  inquire  the  name  of  the  stiff,  and  pay 
no  further  respects.  We  were  familiar  with  death 
and  suffering.  This  night  the  negro  rapped  at  the 
window. 

"JMassa  Al,  can't  nebber  guess  who  I'se  got  with 
me  to-night?" 

"Who,  Sam?"  we  called  out. 

"Little  Dick  Price." 

Little  Dick,  thrown  into  the  wheelbarrow,  with 
nothing  but  an  old  rag  over  his  body,  his  head  lopped 
out  at  one  end,  his  feet  hung  over  the  other.  Sam 
rattled  the  barrow  off  to  the  dead  house. 

I  stayed  with  Billy  that  night.  Both  of  us  were 
fond  of  Dick.  We  couldn't  sleep.  Billy  sat  up  in 
bed. 

"  'Sleep,  Al?"  he  called. 

"Hell,  no." 

''God,  don't  it  give  you  the  creeps  to  think  of  poor 
little  Dick  alone  down  there  in  that  trough?" 

I  went  down  to  the  dead  house  the  next  morning. 
Dick  was  already  closed  up  in  the  rough  wooden 
box.  The  one-horse  spring  wagon  that  carried  off 
the  unclaimed  convict  dead  was  waiting  to  take  him 
to  the  potter's  field.  I  was  the  only  one  who  fol- 
lowed him.    The  wagon  started  off  at  a  trot.     I  ran 


158    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

ahead  of  it  to  the  east  gate.  Old  Tommy,  the  gate- 
man,  stopped  me. 

"What  you  after,  Ut.  AlV 

"I'm  just  coming  as  far  as  I  can  with  a  friend  of 
mine,"  I  told  him. 

The  gate  s^^omg  to.  It  was  a  chill,  foggy  morn- 
ing. I  looked  out.  Leaning  against  a  tree  was  a 
poor,  huddled,  bent  little  figure,  with  an  old  red 
shawl  drawn  tight  about  the  shoulders.  She  had  her 
hands  clasped  tight  together,  her  elbows  dug  into 
her  waist,  and  she  was  swinging  those  hands  up  and 
down  and  shaking  her  head  in  a  grief  so  abject,  so 
desolate,  it  sent  a  broken  sob  even  into  old  Tommy's 
voice. 

"Tommy,  go  speak  to  her,"  I  said.  "That's  Dick's 
mother." 

"Aw,  gee,  ain't  that  hell!     The  poor  old  soul!" 

The  spring  wagon  rattled  by.  Tommy  put  up 
his  hand  to  the  driver.  "Go  slow  there,  ye  heartless 
boob.     That  there  is  the  poor  lad's  old  mother." 

The  driver  reined  in  the  horse.  Dick's  mother 
lurched,  against  the  wagon  and  looked  in  at!  the 
wooden  box.  She  was  swaying  from  side  to  side  like 
a  crazy  thing. 

All  that  she  had  on  earth — the  boy  whose  tragic, 
broken  life  had  been  her  crucifixion — was  in  that 
crude  box.  The  wagon  jogged  off — the  trembling, 
heart-piercing  old  figure  half  running,  half  falling 
along  the  road  after  it. 

Society  had  taken  the  last  farthing  of  its  debt  from 
Dick  Price  and  it  had  beaten  his  mother  into  the 
dust  in  the  cruel  bargain. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Prison  Demon;  the  beast  exhibited;  magic  of  kindness;  reclamation; 
tragedy  of  Ira  Maralatt;  meeting  of  father  and  daughter. 

Such  is  the  story  of  Jimmy  Valentine  as  it  unfolded 
itself  in  the  Ohio  penitentiary.  O.  Henry  takes  the 
one  great  episode  in  that  futile  life  and  with  it  he 
wins  the  tears  and  the  grateful  smiles  of  the  nation. 
In  that  throbbing  silence,  when  the  ex-con  opens  the 
safe  and  the  little  sister  of  the  girl  he  loves  is  saved 
from  suffocation,  Jimmy  as  he  might  have  been,  not 
Jimmy  as  he  was,  is  before  us.  Few  who  have  breathed 
hard  in  that  gripping  moment  w^ould  have  denied 
Dick  Price  his  chance,  would  have  refused  him  the 
pardon  he  earned,  would  have  doomed  him  to  his  for- 
lorn and  lonely  death  in  the  prison  hospital. 

Bill  Porter  was  not  the  grim  artist  to  paint  that 
harsh  picture  for  the  world.  He  loved  a  happy  ending. 
He  could  not  even  give  the  exact  details  of  the  safe- 
opening.  It  was  too  cruel  for  his  light  and  winsome 
fancy. 

That  was  ever  Bill's  way.  He  took  the  facts,  but 
he  twisted  them  as  he  w^ould.  I  asked  him  about  it 
later.  In  the  story  he  gives  the  hero  a  costly  set  of 
tools  wherewith  to  open  the  vault.  He  does  not  have 
him  file  his  nails. 

"Colonel,  it  chills  my  teeth  to  think  of  that  gritting 
operation,"  he  said.  ''I  prefer  the  set  of  tools.  I  don't 


160    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

like  to  make  my  victims  suffer.  And  then,  you  see,  the 
tools  enable  Jimmy  to  make  a  present  to  a  friend. 
That  gift  illustrates  the  toleration  of  the  man  who 
has  been  in  prison. 

* 'Jimmy  decided  to  quit  the  game  himself,  but  he 
does  not  expect  the  whole  world  to  share  his  fervor 
of  reform.  Instead  of  burying  the  instruments  of 
his  former  profession,  as  your  reformed  citizen  would 
have  done,  he  straightway  sends  them  to  a  former 
pal.     I  like  that  spirit  in  my  character. 

''The  ordinary  man  who  makes  a  New  Year's  reso- 
lution immediately  sends  doAvn  censure  on  the  fel- 
low who  isn't  perched  on  the  wagon  with  him.  Jimmy 
does  no  such  thing.  That's  one  of  the  advantages 
of  spending  a  few  vacations  in  prison.  You  grow 
mellow  in  your  judgments." 

This  soft,  golden  toleration  was  one  of  the  gracious 
traits  in  Porter's  character.  It  won  him  friends  even 
though  his  aloof  dignity  forbade  familiarity.  In  the 
"pen"  he  was  universally  respected.  The  meanest 
cutthroat  in  the  ranges  felt  honored  to  serve  him. 

Porter's  "drag"  with  the  prison  barber  was  the 
subject  of  raillery  at  the  club.  The  barber  was  an 
artist  in  his  trade.  He  seemed  to  take  a  mean  de- 
light in  turning  out  grotesque,  futuristic  patterns  in 
headdress.  But  for  Porter  the  most  exquisite  pre- 
cision was  observed.  His  thin,  yellow  hair  was 
trimmed  to  a  nicety.  The  kind,  easy  manner  of  the 
man  had  completely  captivated,  the  burly-hearted 
convict  barber. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  this  humorous,  penetrative 
understanding  in  Porter,   the  Recluse   Club  would 


WITH  O.  HENRY  161 

not  have  endured  a  month.  He  was  its  equihbrium. 
Many  a  violent  clash  ended  in  a  laugh  because  of 
an  odd  fling  Bill  Porter  would  interject  into  the 
turmoil. 

Men  who  have  been  walled  off  from  free  contact 
with  their  fellows  become  excessively  quarrelsome 
and  "touchy."  We  were  cooped  together  like  chil- 
dren in  an  over-large  family.  We  had  no  escape 
from  each  other's  society. 

The  isolation  of  prison  life  whets  antagonism.  Men 
who  could  travel  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  in  friend- 
ship would,  in  a  sudden  raging  bitterness,  spring 
like  tigers  at  each  other's  throat.  Even  in  the  hap- 
piness of  our  Sunday  dinners  these  explosive  out- 
bursts would  break  out  among  the  members. 

It  would  start  with  the  merest  trifle,  and  all  at 
once  there  would  be  fiercely  angry  taunts  flung  from 
one  to  the  other.  In  one  of  these  uncalled  for  erup- 
tions I  sent  in  my  resignation  to  the  club. 

Billy  Raidler  had  protested  that  he  could  taste 
the  soapsuds  on  the  dishes.  I  was  the  chief  dish- 
washer. I  did  not  like  the  imputation.  I  would  not 
have  minded  Billy's  protest,  but  old  man  Carnot 
backed  him  up  with  further  criticism. 

*'Most  assuredly  we  can  taste  the  soap,"  he  said. 
*'But  worse  than  that,  I  do  not  hke  the  garlic.  Now, 
Mr.  Jennings,  why  can  you  not  pick  the  odious  vege- 
table out  of  the  roast?" 

Carnot  was  an  irascible  old  epicure.  He  wanted 
his  napkin  folded  oblong  and  his  knife  and  fork  laid 
down  in  a  certain  fashion.  He  never  failed  to  resent 
the  introduction  of  the  garlic  Louisa  loved. 


162    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Every  one  at  the  table  took  up  the  issue.  They; 
could  all  taste  the  soapsuds,  they  said.  "Damn'  pigs, 
all  of  you!  Take  the  honor  at  the  dishpan  your- 
selves." I  was  furious  with  resentment.  I  could 
have  hurled  the  pots  and  skillets  at  them.  The  next 
Sunday  I  did  not  go  to  the  club.  I  told  Billy  I 
was  finished  v/ith  them.  Billy  had  no  patience  with 
the  sulks  and  left  me  in  a  huff. 

Porter  came  over  to  the  post-office  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  "Colonel,"  he  said,  and  there  was  such 
understanding  indulgence  in  his  tone  I  felt  imme- 
diately appeased,  "don't  you  think  you  better  re- 
consider?" 

"You're  the  very  salt  of  the  earth.  The  club 
is  absolutely  flat  without  your  presence.  You  see, 
we  only  agreed  with  Billy  to  sustain  him.  He's  a 
cripple.     He  can't  stand  alone." 

It  was  just  the  sort  of  pampering  to  mollify  un- 
reasonable hot  temper.  Porter  was  always  ready  to 
smooth  us  down.  He  was  always  ready  to  hear  our 
grievances.     His  own  troubles  he  bore  alone. 

Whenever  he  did  reveal  his  thoughts  it  was  by  an 
accidental  outcropping  in  a  lightsome  talk.  He  and 
Louisa  used  to  indulge  in  long  discussions  on  astron- 
omy and  evolution.  Porter  was  facetious,  Louisa 
serious  and  very  scientific.  Louisa  would  be  mixing 
up  a  gravy  or  a  sauce. 

"You're  something  of  a  little  creator  in  the  culi- 
nary line,  Louisa,"  Porter  would  say.  "What  do 
you  suppose  were  the  ingredients  used  in  the  crea- 
tion of  the  v/orld?" 

Louisa's  attention  was  instant.     He  would  talk 


WITH  O.  HENRY  163 

about  protoplasm  and  the  gradual  accommodation  of 
living  organism  to  environment. 

"Tut,  tut,"  Porter  would  mock.  "I  hold  fast  to 
the  Bibhcal  story.  What  else  should  men  be  made 
of  but  a  handful  of  mud?  The  Creator  was  right; 
men  are  but  dirt.  Take  Ira  Maralatt,  the  Prison 
Demon,  for  instance." 

A  queer,  yellowish  pallor  spread  over  Bill's  face. 
I  knew  that  the  name  had  slipped  from  Porter's  lips 
unconsciously. 

"Colonel,  it  is  a  ghastly  thing  to  see  a  man  de- 
graded into  a  beast  like  Maralatt,"  he  said.  "Last 
night  they  beat  him  to  strips  again.  I  had  to  go 
dow^n  to  the  basement  to  sponge  him  off.  I  tell  you 
it  would  take  a  floor  mop  to  do  the  job  right — he  is 
such  a  giant." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  Porter  speak 
of  INIaralatt,  the  Prison  Demon,  yet  he  had  x^erhaps 
to  sponge  him  off  two  or  three  times  a  week.  Mara- 
latt was  the  untamed  tiger  of  the  "stir."  He  was 
the  prison  horror.  He  had  attacked  and  stabbed 
a  dozen  guards. 

For  fourteen  years  he  had  been  in  solitary,  prac- 
tically buried  alive  in  the  black  hole  in  the  basement 
without  a  bed,  without  blankets,  without  light. 

When  the  guards  would  attempt  to  clean  out  the 
cell  Ira  would  spring  at  them.  They  vv^ould  over- 
power him,  beat  him  and  hang  him  up  by  the  wrists. 
Still  he  was  unsubdued.  He  kept  the  prison  in  re- 
curring spasms  of  fright. 

No  one  knew  who  would  be  his  next  victim.  He 
was  as  ferocious  as  a  mad  bull. 


164    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

I  had  never  seen  him.  Porter's  exclamation  filled 
me  with  curiosity.  I  went  over  the  next  evening?  to 
ask  him  about  Maralatt.  We  were  standing  in  one 
of  the  wards  just  above  the  punishment  cell. 

A  sudden  wild,  terrific  scream,  tortured  and  ago- 
nized, split  the  air.  There  was  a  frenzied  scuffle,  a 
booming  thud,  and  a  guard's  voice  slirilled  out  in 
frantic  terror. 

Porter's  tranquil  face  quivered.  "Maralatt,"  he 
whispered.     "Murder  at  lastl" 

The  next  morning  excitement  shot  hke  a  flash 
from  face  to  face.  A  big  secret  was  out.  Maralatt 
had  nearly  strangled  a  guard  the  night  before.  He 
was  to  be  moved  from  his  dungeon  in  solitary  to 
a  steel  cage  built  in  solid  stone  at  the  end  of  the  east 
corridor. 

For  months  they  had  been  building  the  cage.  It 
was  a  revolting  thing,  made  as  if  to  house  some  fero- 
cious jungle  beast.  It  opened  into  a  niche  in  the 
stone  about  four  by  eight  feet.  In  the  niche  Ira  was 
to  sleep. 

We  got  the  tip  from  the  warden's  office.  I  had 
been  sent  on  a  message  across  the  campus.  I  came 
into  the  alley-like  corridor,  passing  a  few  guards. 
A  look  of  riven  terror  held  them  staring  and  silent. 
Their  frightened  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  door 
that  led  to  the  solitar}^  cells. 

The  door  sprang  open,  and  a  spectacle  to  freeze 
the  heart  wdth  its  terrific  and  grisly  horror  was 
before  us.  I  saw  the  Prison  Demon.  Hulk-shoul- 
dered, gigantic,  lurched  forward,  he  towered  above 
the  dozen  guards  like  a  huge,  ferocious  gorilla-man. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  165 

I  could  see  his  face.  The  hair  was  matted  about 
him,  the  clothes  torn  in  ragged  strips. 

The  guards  stood  at  a  distance,  pushing  him  for- 
ward with  long  poles.  They  stood  on  either  side. 
The  demon  could  not  escape.  At  the  ends  of  the 
poles  were  strong  iron  hooks,  fastened  into  his  flesh, 
and  as  the  guards  pushed  the  hooks  jagged  into  the 
prisoner's  bones.     He  was  compelled  to  wailv. 

On  his  foot  was  the  monstrous  Oregon  boot.  Every 
step  must  have  been  an  agon3^  There  was  no  sound 
from  the  Prison  Demon.  Across  the  grass  to  the 
new-made  dungeon  in  the  old  A  and  B  block  the 
hellish  procession  took  its  way.  Ira  ISIaralatt  was 
riveted  to  his  steel  cage  and  a  sign,  ''Prison  Demon," 
pasted  above  the  grating. 

The  Prison  Demon  became  an  attraction  at  the 
penitentiary.  His  fame  spread  over  the  city — al- 
most over  the  State.  He  was  known  as  the  brute 
man — the  hell  fiend.  Visitors  wanted  a  sight  of 
him.  The  old  warden  saw  a  chance  to  turn  a  penny. 
For  25  cents  citizens  were  taken  dowTi  the  east  cor- 
ridor and  allowed  to  stare  at  the  degraded  thing  that 
had  once  been  a  man. 

Ira  was  not  a  willing  party  to  the  bargain.  He 
had  a  mean  habit  of  crouching  down  in  the  far  cor- 
ner of  his  black  cage  and  cheating  the  visitors  of 
their  money's  worth.  One  day  a  distinguished  citi- 
zen stood  in  the  alley  half  an  hour  waiting  for  the 
demon  to  exhibit  himself.  Threats  and  prods  from 
the  guards  were  fruitless.  The  matter  was  reported 
to  the  warden.  Incensed  and  blustering,  he  came 
running  down  the  corridor. 


166    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"Open  the  door,"  he  called  to  one  of  the  guards. 
No  one  moved.     They  did  not  dare  obey  the  order. 

"Open  the  door,"  Coffin  yelled,  snatching  the  club 
from  one  of  the  guards.  He  sprang  into  the  cage, 
the  club  raised,  rushing  furiously  toward  the  crouch- 
ing giant  in  the  corner. 

"Come  out,  you  fiend!"  he  bawled.  The  Demon 
reared,  hurled  himself  upright  and  lunged  with  the 
Tiolence  of  a  raging  Colossus  against  the  warden. 
The  sudden  mad  impact  bowled  the  warden  over. 

Ira  snatched  the  club  and  flung  it  forth  for  a 
crashing  blow  on  Coffin's  head.  Two  guards  dashed 
into  the  cage,  caught  Ira  by  the  feet  and  sent  him 
ihundering  backward  against  the  wall. 

The  visitor  got  his  25  cents'  worth  that  day. 

The  warden's  escape  was  little  short  of  a  miracle. 
It  taught  him  a  lesson.  He  devised  a  safer  scheme 
for  bringing  Maralatt  out  of  his  wretched  hole.  From 
a  window  in  the  inner  hall  he  had  a  hose  attached  to 
the  cage.  It  would  send  down  a  storming  current 
of  ice-cold  water  that  would  cut  the  flesh  of  the  cow- 
ering Demon. 

Ira  would  come  roaring  like  an  infuriated  lion  to 
the  bars  of  the  cage.  He  would  grab  the  steel  in  his 
mighty  hands,  shaking  it,  and  filling  the  alley  with 
wild,  maniac  screams. 

This  practice  continued  two  or  three  months.  The 
new  warden  came  in,  took  down  the  sign  from  Ira's 
cage  and  prevented  the  shameful  exhibits. 

The  sequel  to  Ira's  tragic  history  came  many 
months  later,  after  I  had  been  appointed  private 
secretary  to  Warden  W.  N.  Darby.     Darby  had  a 


WITH  O.  HEXRY  167 

kind,  magnificent  sympathy  in  his  enthusiastic  na- 
ture. He  had  an  eager  ear  for  suggestions,  even 
from  the  meanest  convict.  A  chance  incident  opened 
the  dark  book  of  Ira  Maralatt's  ghastly  hfe. 

One  evening  I  was  walking  down  the  east  corridor 
on  my  way  to  the  asylum.  I  had  taken  an  apple 
from  the  warden's  table  where  I  ate.  I  was  bringing 
the  fruit  to  a  poor  fellow  in  the  prison  "bughouse." 
He  had  lost  his  mind  and  his  eyesight  in  the  hoe  pol- 
ishing shop.  The  hoes  were  polished  on  emery 
wheels. 

Millions  of  steel  particles  darted  about,  often 
puncturing  the  convicts  in  the  face  and  neck.  The 
sparks  had  gotten  this  poor  devil  in  the  forehead  and 
eyes.    I  used  to  bring  him  an  extra  bit  to  eat. 

As  a  I  passed  the  prison  demon's  cage  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  haggard  face  at  the  low  opening  into 
the  stone  cell.  Like  a  dumb,  pathetic  apparition, 
wretched  and  uncertain,  the  lumbering  figure  groped 
from  corner  to  corner.  The  red,  sunken  eyes  seemed 
to  be  burning  deep  into  the  smeared  and  pallid 
cheeks. 

One  hand  that  was  but  a  mammoth  yellow  claw 
w^as  pressed  against  the  rough  mat  of  black  hair. 
JMore  hke  a  hurt  and  broken  Samson  than  like  a  hell 
fiend  Ira  JMaralatt  looked  as  his  eye  met  mine  in 
startled  fear. 

Something  in  the  defenseless  misery  of  his  glance 
held  me.  I  ran  back  to  his  cage,  took  the  apple  from 
my  pocket,  pressed  it  through  the  bars,  rolling  it 
over  to  Maralatt.  He  drew  back.  I  called  softly  to 
him. 


168    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"There's  an  apple  for  you,  Ira."  He  made  no 
answer.  I  stepped  into  a  shadow  in  the  corridor  and 
•waited. 

In  a  moment  I  saw  the  huge  creature  creeping 
stealthily  forward  on  his  hands  and  knees.  The  great 
yellow  claw  reached  out.  The  broken  cuff  and  link 
on  his  arm  clanked  on  the  cement.  The  chain  was 
imbedded  into  his  wrist  and  the  flesh  bulged  out  over 
it.  The  hand  closed  over  the  apple.  The  Demon 
leaped  back  to  his  comer. 

After  that  I  felt  myself  drawn  to  the  Prison 
Demon's  cage.  Ira  no  longer  seemed  a  fiend  to  me, 
but  an  abused  and  tormented  human.  I  sat  outside 
his  cell  and  called  to  him.  He  must  have  recognized 
my  voice,  for  he  came  creeping  with  a  hunching 
swiftness  to  the  front  of  the  cage.  He  always 
went  on  all  fours. 

"Did  you  like  the  apple,  Ira?"  He  looked  up  at 
me,  as  though  a  thought  were  struggling  in  his  mind. 
He  did  not  answer,  but  sat  there  watching  me.  Then 
he  shook  his  shaggy  head  and  crept  back  to  the  stone 
niche. 

I  thought  I  would  ask  Bill  Porter  about  him. 
Whenever  Ira  had  been  beaten  Bill,  as  the  hospital 
attendant,  had  been  called  in  to  revive  him.  The 
theme  nauseated  Porter.  The  memor}^  of  the  raw 
and  bleeding  flesh  he  had  so  many  times  sponged  sent 
a  shudder  of  revulsion  through  him. 

"Don't  speak  of  it.  This  place  becomes  more  un- 
endurable each  moment.  I  try  to  write  in  the  night. 
Some  wretch,  racked  with  unbearable  pain,  screams 
out.    It  goes  like  a  cold  blade  to  the  throat.    It  comes 


WITH  O.  HENRY  169 

into  my  story  like  a  death  rattle  in  the  midst  of  a 
wedding.    Then  I  can  work  no  longer." 

"But  you  saw  Jra  and  watched  him  more  than 
others.    Is  he  a  demon?" 

"Colonel,  the  man  should  be  in  an  insane  asylum, 
not  in  a  prison.  There's  something  pressing  on  his 
brain.     That's  my  opinion. 

I  felt  satisfied  with  the  verdict.  Every  night  I 
used  to  go  down  to  Ira's  cage,  bringing  him  pieces  of 
biscuit  or  meat  from  the  warden's  table.  In  a  httle 
while  I  knew  that  Ira  counted  on  these  visits.  I 
would  find  him  waiting  for  me. 

This  wild  man,  who  had  become  a  thing  of  terror 
with  his  hand  against  his  fellows,  would  be  sitting 
close  to  the  bars,  his  glowing,  uncomprehending  eyes 
peering  with  a  glance  of  cringing  supplication  for 
my  coming. 

He  would  take  the  biscuits  from  my  hands  and  eat 
them  before  me.  For  fourteen  years  no  one  had  ever 
seen  the  Prison  Demon  eat.  His  food  would  be 
shoved  through  the  grating.  He  would  not  touch  it. 
In  the  night  he  would  drag  it  into  his  cell. 

We  would  talk  about  the  prison.  Ira  could  answer 
intelhgently.  Then  I  would  try  to  draw  his  history 
from  him.  I  could  hardly  ever  get  more  than  three 
or  four  words.  He  couldn't  remember.  He  would 
point  to  his  head  and  press  his  hand  against  it. 

We  knew  that  Ira  was  in  for  murder,  that  he  had 
choked  a  man  to  death.  No  one  knew  the  circum- 
stances leading  to  the  crime.  No  one  had  ever  cared. 
I  thought  I  would  send  a  letter  to  some  friends  if 
he  had  any.     They  might  help  him. 


170    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"Don't  know.  Head  hurts,"  he  would  answer  in 
a  guttural  indistinct  voice.  "Got  a  lick  on  the  head 
once.     Coal  car  hit  me. 

Night  and  night,  after  the  most  laborious  pauses, 
he  would  give  me  the  same  answers.  He  wanted  to 
remember.  When  he  failed  he  would  press  his  power- 
ful hands  together  and  turn  to  me  in  abject,  appeal- 
ing despair.  But  once  he  seemed  to  have  a  gleam 
of  recollection. 

I  became  absorbed  in  piecing  together  the  solitary 
words  he  muttered.  I  must  have  been  sitting  there 
half  an  hour.  A  runner  from  the  warden  came  shout- 
ing down  the  main  corridor  for  me. 

"Where  in  hell  have  you  been  serenading?"  Darby 
thundered.  On  a  quick  impulse  I  told  him  of  the 
demon  and  the  apple. 

"Ira's  only  a  poor  demented  creature.  He  got  a 
lick  on  the  head  once.  He's  harmless  as  an  infant  if 
you  handle  him  right." 

Darby  looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  mad. 

"It's  a  fact.    He  eats  out  of  my  hand." 

"If  that's  true  then  I'll  take  him  out  of  there." 

We  went  down  the  next  morning  to  the  cage.  The 
warden  ordered  the  door  opened.  I  could  see  the 
dark  outlines  of  Ira's  figure.  The  guard  was  fright- 
ened. Darby  took  the  key,  turned  the  lock  and 
stepped  forward.  If  he  had  suddenly  flung  himself 
under  a  moving  engine,  death  would  not  have  seemed 
more  certain.  Ira  drew  back,  hesitated,  then  leaped 
with  all  his  mighty  bulk  toward  Darby. 

"Ira!"  I  shouted.  The  massive  figure  stiffened  as 
though  an  electric  voltage  had  suddenly  gone  through 


WITH  O.  HENRY  171 

him.     The  Prison  Demon  dropped  his  arm  to  the 
ground  and  came  creeping  toward  me. 

"Be  good,  Ira,"  I  whispered. 

The  warden  braced  himself.  We  went  into  the 
tiny  cell  room.  The  stench  and  filth  of  the  hole  came 
up  hke  a  sickening  wave  against  us.  "Come  outside, 
Ira,"  the  warden  said.  I  nodded.  "If  I  give  you  a 
good  job,  Ira,  will  you  behave?" 

It  was  the  first  time  Ira  had  heard  a  kind  word 
from  a  prison  official.  He  looked  about,  his  eyes 
narrowing  distrustfully,  and  began  to  edge  away 
from  the  warden. 

"He'll  treat  you  square,  Ira." 

The  towering  giant  could  have  crushed  me  in  his 
two  hands.  He  was  about  a  foot  taller  than  I,  but 
he  shuffled  along  at  my  side,  looking  down  at  me  with 
a  meek  docihty  that  filled  the  guards  with  wonder. 

The  warden  made  straight  for  the  hospital,  ordered 
good  food  and  skilled  attention  for  the  Demon. 
Three  weeks  later  the  Ohio  penitentiary  had  a  soft- 
tongued  Hercules  in  the  place  of  the  insensate  beast 
that  had  been  Ira  Maralatt.  The  doctors  had  found 
the  skull  pressing  on  the  brain,  operated  and  removed 
the  "dent"  that  had  sent  Ira  into  his  mad  fits  of  mur- 
derous, unreasoning  rage.  Memory  returned  to  him. 
Ira  told  a  stoiy,  moving  and  compelling  in  its  ele- 
mental tragedy. 

He  had  been  an  iron  puddler  in  the  steel  mills  of 
Cleveland.  Before  a  furnace,  vast  and  roaring  as  a 
hell  pit,  the  half-nude  puddler  works,  stirring  the 
molten  iron.  He  breathes  in  a  red  hot,  blasting  hur- 
ricane.   He  moves  in  a  bellowing  clamor  louder  thaa 


172    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

the  shout  of  a  thousand  engines.  Only  the  strongest 
can  withstand  the  deafening  tumult,  the  scorching 
air  of  that  bedlam.     Ira  Maralatt  was  one  of  these. 

There  came  a  strike  in  the  mills.  Ira  went  home 
to  his  wife.  He  had  been  married  but  a  year.  They 
had  been  paying  down  on  a  httle  home.  Ira  could 
get  no  work.     The  walkout  dashed  their  hopes. 

"I'm  going  to  Canalto^vn,  to  the  mines,"  he  told 
the  girl-wife  one  day.  "I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  it's 
settled."  She  walked  with  him  to  the  gate.  He 
never  saw  her  again.  When  Ira  returned  to  the  little 
home  all  that  had  been  dear  and  sacred  to  him  was 
gone. 

In  West  Virginia  Maralatt  got  a  job  in  the  coal 
mines.  He  was  working  near  one  of  the  pillars.  A 
coal  car  shot  along  the  tracks  to  the  chutes  to  be 
filled.  The  car  with  its  tonnage  started  down  the 
grade. 

Just  at  the  pillar  it  should  have  switched.  In- 
stead, it  came  heading  straight  toward  Ira.  Further 
down  the  track  twenty  men  were  working.  The  car, 
with  the  tremendous  speed  of  the  runaway,  would 
have  crushed  them  to  a  pulp. 

There  was  one  chance  of  escape  for  them.  Ira 
took  it.  The  gigantic  hands  went  out,  caught  the 
bolting  car  and  with  a  smashing  force  sent  the  top- 
heavy  four-wheeler  sideways. 

In  the  terrible  impact  Ira  caromed  against  the 
wall  of  the  mine.  The  lives  of  twenty  men  were 
saved.  The  mashed  and  unconscious  form  of  the 
gigantic  Maralatt  was  dragged  out  and  sent  to  the 
hospital. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  173 

Without  a  thought  of  himself  and  his  own  life, 
Ira  Maralatt  had  hurled  himself  across  the  path  of 
the  runaway  coal  car.  If  he  had  died  his  fellows 
would  have  exalted  the  memory  of  the  man  whose 
splendid  courage  had  saved  twenty  lives.  Ira  lived 
— but  the  sacrifice  took  a  dearer  thing  than  mere 
existence.  It  gave  him  not  honor,  but  a  shameful 
brand.    He  became  the  Prison  Demon. 

After  the  tragic  disaster  in  the  coal  mine,  Ira  lay 
for  months  in  the  hospital.  He  was  finally  sent  out 
as  cured. 

The  strike  at  the  steel  mills  had  been  settled.  Back 
to  Cleveland  and  the  little  home  the  iron  puddler 
went. 

There  was  a  pathway,  hedged  with  cowslips,  lead- 
ing up  to  the  door.  Ira  walked  quickly,  meaning  to 
surprise  the  wife  who  had  not  heard  from  him  in  the 
months  he  had  been  at  the  hospital. 

There  were  new  curtains  at  the  window.  A  hand 
rustled  muslin  drapeiy  aside.  A  strange  face  looked 
with  doubtful  question  on  the  man  at  the  hedge. 

*'Good  morning,  sir,"  the  woman  said. 

*'Good  morning,  indeed,"  Maralatt  answered, 
mystified  and  startled. 

"Who  lives  here?" 

"What's  that  to  you?"  the  woman  snapped. 

"This  is  my  home  and  my  wife's!"  Suddenly  ex- 
cited and  trembling,  Ira  turned  upon  the  strange 
woman. 

"Where  is  my  wife?"   Where  is  Dora  Maralatt?" 

"Oh,  her!  She's  gone.  I  don't  know  where.  Got 
put  out.    Are  you  the  missing  husband?"  the  woman 


174    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

sneered.  "Well,  there's  your  bag  and  baggage  over 
in  the  lot  there!"  With  a  laughing  slii'ug,  she  pushed 
the  curtain  to  its  place. 

Over  in  the  lot,  dumped  out  like  a  rubbish  heap, 
Maralatt  found  the  remnants  of  his  home.  There 
was  the  chest  with  the  wrought-steel  corners  he  had 
given  Dora  for  a  birthday  gift — there  w^as  the  dining- 
room  table  and  the  six  chairs  that  had  been  the  pride 
of  the  girl's  heart.  There,  too,  was  a  thing  Ira  had 
never  seen  before — a  clothes  basket  tied  with  pink 
stuff  and  ribbons. 

Distracted,  enraged,  like  one  suddenly  demented, 
he  ran  back  to  the  cottage  door  and  banged  on  the 
panel. 

"Go  away  from  here  with  your  noise,"  the  woman 
called.     "I'll  have  you  arrested!" 

"Open  the  door,"  Maralatt  stormed,  "please,  I'll 
not  come  in.  Open  it  just  a  moment.  My  wife,  did 
you  see  her  go?  Is  she  alive?  Tell  me  just  that. 
How  long  is  she  gone?    Where  can  she  be?" 

The  woman  softened.  "Don't  get  so  excited  and 
I'll  tell  you.  She  went  out  alive.  But  she  was  pretty 
well  done  in.  She  looked  about  gone.  I  don't  know 
where  she  went.    Maybe  she's  dead  now." 

"The  baby— did  it^die,  too?'^ 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  She  left  before  it  was 
born.  "Well,  now,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  poor  fellow, 
but  I  don't  know  where  she  is.  I'll  tell  you — you 
might  go  do^\Ti  to  the  landlord.  He  knows.  He*s 
the  one  that  ordered  those  things  dumped  out.  He's 
down  at  the  same  old  office." 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth  Mara- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  175 

latt  bolted  down  the  path,  tearing  like  a  wild  man 
through  the  streets.  "Where's  my  wdfe?"  Where's 
Dora  Maralatt?  Where's  the  girl  you  put  out  of  the 
bungalow  on  the  hill?" 

In  a  rushing  fury  the  questions  tumbled  from  his 
lips.  The  agent  looked  at  him  with  contemptuous 
insult.  "Who  let  this  maniac  into  the  office?  Throw 
him  out?" 

The  order  calmed  Maralatt.  He  leaned  forward, 
touching  the  man's  hand.  "Excuse  me,  I'm  a  bit 
excited.  I've  been  away.  You  know  me,  don't  you? 
I  was  buying  that  little  cottage  on  C  street.  I've 
been  sick.  I  came  back.  I  can't  find  my  wife. 
Could  you  tell  me  where  she  is?  They  say  you  put 
her  out." 

"Oh,  you're  the  missing  puddler!  Well,  you've 
lost  the  house.  Yes,  the  woman  was  put  out.  I 
remember  it  all  now.  She  made  a  fuss  about  it.  We 
had  to  throw  her  out." 

"Where  is  she?"  Maralatt  was  breathing  quick 
and  short  in  a  choking  panic.  "Where's  my  wife 
gone?" 

"Oh,  get  out  of  here!  The  house  is  lost.  TVTiat 
do  I  care  about  your  wife.  Why  didn't  you  stick 
around  and  look  after  her?" 

"Well,  you  put  her  out,  didn't  you?  Where  did 
she  go  to?" 

"The  damn'  scrub's  in  hell,  where  she  ought  to  be! 

Who  cares  about  your  of  a  wife  anyway! 

Get  out  of  here!" 

The  balance  slipped.  A  blood-crazed  panther, 
Maralatt,  leaped  over  the  counter,  "My  what  of  a 


176    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

wife!  What — what — what — you  damned  scoundrel! 
My  wife — what?  Say  it  again!  You  thief,  you  vil- 
lain, say  it  again!" 

Iron  hands  swooped  the  agent  from  the  floor, 
wrenching  the  neck  as  though  it  were  but  a  chicken's. 
Back  and  forth  until  the  skin  on  the  scarlet  cheeks 
was  hke  to  burst,  Maralatt  knocked  that  grasping 
head.  It  took  three  officers  to  break  those  hands 
loose  from  the  dead  man's  throat. 

A  foaming  maniac,  Maralatt  was  knocked  insen- 
sible, thrown  into  the  patrol  wagon,  and  taken  off  to 
the  station  house. 

His  mind  was  gone.  He  was  sent  up  for  life  to  the 
Ohio  penitentiary.  No  defense  had  been  made  for 
him. 

This  was  the  story  Ira  told  the  warden  after  the 
operation  at  the  prison  hospital  had  restored  his 
memory.  The  giant  Hercules  was  no  longer  a  gorilla 
man.  Clean,  quiet,  spent,  he  sat  Hke  a  kind  old 
patriarch  and  told  the  aching  tale. 

Darby  made  him  caretaker  in  the  condemned  row. 
Ira  cleaned  out  the  cells,  swept  the  room  where  the 
electric  chair  was  kept  and  took  the  food  to  these  con- 
victs. Doomed  men,  counting  the  days  between 
them  and  the  chair,  plaj^ed  checkers  with  the  prison 
demon  now.  In  the  ghastly  fear  of  the  nightmare 
days  before  execution  many  a  lost  unfortunate  found 
comfort  in  the  benediction  of  Maralatt's  sympathetic 
presence. 

I  used  to  visit  Ira  in  the  condemned  row.  He  was 
happy  and  serene.  Some  one  had  given  him  a  pair 
of  canary  birds.     The  warden  allowed  him  to  raise 


WITH  O.  HENRY  177 

them  in  his  cell.  First  he  had  four,  then  ten,  be- 
fore long  the  dull,  clamorous  silence  of  the  doomed 
men  was  filled  with  the  joyous,  thrilling  song  of 
many  canary  birds. 

It  was  a  touching  thing  to  see  the  white-haired 
giant  sitting  in  his  cell — the  sunlight  coming  in  in 
golden  radiance  through  the  window  in  the  inner 
wall,  and  these  yellow  fluttering,  singing  things 
perched  on  his  shoulders  and  resting  in  the  pahns  of 
his  great  hands. 

Dark  faces  pressed  against  the  bars  of  the  con- 
demned cells.  "Ira,  bring  me  a  bird,  let  me  hold  it  a 
moment!"  one  would  call.  "Ira,  have  Melba  sing 
the  "Toreador,"  another  would  grimly  jest.  In  the 
near  approach  of  their  death,  Ira  and  his  birds  and 
his  gentle  ministrations  were  like  a  prophecy  of  Hv- 
ing  hope. 

One  day  Warden  Darby  hurried  into  the  office. 
He  had  been  up  to  Cleveland.  His  voice  was  brus- 
que. "I  have  discovered  something,"  he  said.  "Send 
for  Ira  Maralatt,  at  once." 

"Sit  do^vn,  Ira,  and  be  calm."  The  warden  could 
scarcely  suppress  the  emotion  of  his  own  voice.  "I Ve 
been  up  to  Cleveland.  Ran  into  the  strangest  thing. 
Guess  you  told  a  straight  story,  all  right!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Ira  answered,  a  frightened  light  in  his 
eye.  "Yes,  sir  it  was  the  truth.  Leastways,  I'm 
pretty  sure  it  was.  Surely,  I  couldn't  have  areamed 
it,  could  I?" 

"Now,  that's  all  right.  But  listen  to  me.  You 
had  a  wife,  you  say?  Dora,  that  was  her  name, 
wasn't  it?    Well,  she  died — died  right  after  they  put 


178    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

her  out  of  the  cottage.  The  baby  hved.  She's  aUve 
today.  I  met  her.  She's  pretty.  She  was  adopted 
by  wealthy  people  here  in  Columbus.  They're 
friends  of  the  governor.  I  just  happened  to  talk 
about  you.  The  girl's  foster  mother  is  a  relative  of 
your  wife's.  She  thought  you  were  a  maniac.  I  told 
her  the  truth. 

"Ira,  go  over  to  the  State  shop,  get  a  suit  and 
shoes.  You're  pardoned.  I  took  it  up  v/ith  the  Gov- 
ernor.    You  go  out  tomorrow. 

With  a  shock  of  bewildered  emotion  that  sent  a 
quiver  of  sobbing  happiness  into  his  voice,  Ira  Mara- 
latt  put  out  his  hands  to  the  warden. 

"Does  the  girl  know?" 

"iSTow,  no,  they  haven't  told  her.  It  would  be  too 
sudden  a  strain." 

The  next  morning  Ira,  in  his  cheap  suit,  the 
squeaky  prison  shoes  and  a  light  straw  hat,  came 
to  the  warden's  office.  His  gigantic  frame  was 
stooped  and  his  face  shot  through  with  nervous  ex- 
citement. 

"You  did  all  this,  Mr.  Al,"  he  said,  the  tears  crowd- 
ing into  his  eyes.  "Just  think  what  you  did  when  you 
rolled  that  apple  to  me."  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"Mr.  Al,  she  won't  ever  recognize  me,  will  she?  I 
don't  think  I'd  like  her  to  know  her  father  was  the 
Prison  Demon." 

When  Darby  handed  him  the  pardon  and  the  five 
dollars  his  hands  shook.  "I  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you,  warden!" 

"You  don't  have  to — God  knows  you've  paid  for 
it!" 


WITH  O.  HENRY  17^ 

Ira  took  two  of  his  little  canaries  with  him.  "I'll 
give  them  to  the  girl  for  a  present.  I  want  to  see 
her.  I  have  to  see  her."  He  shook  hands  with 
Darby  and  me. 

A  w^eek  passed.  We  heard  no  word  from  him. 
The  warden  became  alarmed.  "I  wonder  if  anything 
could  have  happened  to  the  old  man?"  Maralatt  was 
but  46.  His  terrible  suffering  during  18  years 
in  prison  had  broken  even  his  magnificent  strength. 
He  seemed  about  60.  "I  wonder  if  he  went  to  see 
his  daughter?    Funny,  I  didn't  hear." 

It  worried  Darby  so  much  he  inquired.  He  sent 
for  the  girl's  foster  mother.  He  told  her  of  Ira  and 
the  canaries.  Back  came  the  frantic  answer  from 
the  daughter  herself.  In  an  hour  she  was  at  the  war- 
den's office. 

"An  old  man  with  canaries?"  Yes,  an  old  man  had 
come  with  them.  She  had  the  birds  now.  "What 
about  it?    That  man,  my  father!" 

"Why  didn't  some  one  tell  me?  How  dare  they 
keep  it  from  me.  That's  what  he  meant  when  he  left. 
That's  why  he  called  me  little  Dora.  Oh,  what  shall 
we  do  now?" 

In  broken  sentences  she  told  of  the  mysterious 
visit  of  the  old  bird-peddler.  Ira  had  gone  up  the 
steps  of  the  palatial  home  where  the  girl  lived.  He 
had  brought  the  httle  cage  with  the  birds.  Perhaps 
he  had  intended  to  tell  Mary  he  was  her  father.  The 
sight  of  her  beauty,  her  culture,  her  happiness  had 
chilled  his  ardor.  The  grand  old  fellow  could  not 
bear  to  spoil  her  glad  youth  with  the  tragedy  of  his 
bleak  life.    He  had  left  with  his  claim  unspoken. 


180    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

The  girl  was  coming  down  the  stairs  as  the  old  man 
rang  the  bell.  The  butler  had  denied  him  entrance. 
And  the  girl  had  run  forward  and  ordered  the  old  man 
to  come  in. 

*'I  thought,  Miss,  perhaps  you  would  buy  these 
birds.  I'm  poor  and  they  are  wonderful  singers.  I 
raised  them  myself." 

And  just  out  of  sympathy  for  tlie  pathetic  old 
stranger,  the  girl  had  bought  the  canaries.  He  would 
only  take  a  dollar  from  her.  She  had  not  understood. 
He  had  looked  at  her  and  the  tears  had  streamed 
down  his  cheeks. 

"Good-by,  httle  Dora,"  he  said  as  he  left.  He  stood 
at  the  door  as  though  he  were  about  to  say  something 
further  and  then  he  looked  at  her  with  a  queer,  sad 
light  on  his  face  and  went  down  the  steps. 

They  thought  he  was  a  harmless,  unbalanced  old 
oddity. 

"Where  can  I  find  him?  Where  shall  I  look  for 
him?  Why  didn't  some  one  tell  me?"  the  girl  was 
torn  with  grief.    * 'Hurry,  let  us  look  now." 

Outside  it  was  snowing.  There  had  been  a  wind 
storm  for  a  week.  Maralatt's  daughter  and  the  war- 
den searched  in  every  street  and  alley  for  the  old  man. 
He  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

One  night  there  was  a  knock  at  the  guard-room 
door  and  a  faint  voice  called  out,  "Let  me  come  in, 
please."  The  captain  of  the  guard  opened  the  door. 
Ira  Maralatt,  his  thin  prison  suit  drenched  and  hang- 
ing in  a  limp  rag  about  him,  was  kneehng  in  the  snow 
at  the  prison  door. 

"Let  me  in,  please,  I  have  nowhere  to  go." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  181 

"No,  no,  go  away,  you  re  pardoned.  I  can't  let 
you  in,  it's  against  the  law,"  the  captain  answered. 

The  warden  was  informed. 

"Who  was  it?"  he  asked. 

"Maralatt,"  they  answered. 

He  came  rushing  to  the  gate  and  ordered  it  op- 
ened.   JNIaralatt  was  not  there. 

Darby  swore  at  them. 

''Don't  you  know  we've  been  looking  everywhere 
for  him  for  weeks?" 

Beyond  the  walls,  flinging  himself  along,  the  war- 
den went  on  the  search.  He  came  back  fifteen  min- 
utes later,  the  half-frozen  Maralatt  limping  along  at 
his  side.  He  found  him  down  in  the  snow  near  the 
river.  Ira  was  burning  up  with  fever.  His  face  was 
already  stricken  with  death. 

Everywhere  he  went  asking  for  work,  he  said,  they 
had  refused  him.  They  said  he  was  too  old.  Finally 
he  gave  up  trying. 

The  warden  sent  for  Maralatt's  daughter. 

The  young  girl,  graceful  and  white  as  an  angel, 
flung  herself  into  the  old  man's  arms. 

"Don't  die,  daddy!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  See, 
I'm  your  girl,  Mary.  Just  look  at  me!  Oh,  why 
didn't  I  know?  If  you  only  knew  how  many  times 
I  longed  for  a  father— any  one,  any  kind.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

Maralatt  looked  at  her  in  dim,  feverish  gladness. 
He  took  the  dehcate  hands  in  his  gigantic  palm  and 
turned  to  her. 

"I  looked  all  over  for  you,  Mary,"  he  said.  "I'm 
so  glad  you  came." 


182    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

With  a  smile  of  wondrous  peace  on  his  hps,  the 
prison  demon  sank  back  on  the  pillows.  The  old 
hero  had  won  his  pahn  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Methods  of  O.  Henry;   his   promotion;   the  singing  of  Sally  Castleton; 
O,  Henry's  indifference;  the  explanation. 

The  shadows  of  a  thousand  Dick  Prices  and  Ira 
Maralatts  skulked  like  unhappy  ghosts  through  the 
cell  corridors  of  the  Ohio  penitentiary.  The  memory 
of  a  thousand  tragedies  seemed  to  abide  in  the  very 
air  of  the  ranges.  Men  who  allowed  themselves  to 
come  under  the  persistent  gloom  of  these  haunting 
presences  went  mad. 

The  rest  of  us  sought  an  outlet  in  gayety — in  a 
hundred  trivial  little  incidents  that  v/ould  bring  a 
laugh  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  funniness.  In 
self-defense,  the  contact  becomes  hardened  to  the 
brutal  suffering  of  the  life  about  him. 

If  any  one  had  heard  Billy  Raidler,  Bill  Porter 
and  me,  as  we  talked  and  guffawed  in  the  prison  post- 
ofBce,  he  would  have  rated  us  an  unthinking  trio  of 
irresponsible  scamps. 

We  never  aired  our  melancholy,  but  we  would 
wrangle  and  jest  by  the  hour  over  the  probable  course 
a  fly  batting  itself  against  the  post-office  window  might 
take  if  we  let  it  out — over  the  origin  of  the  black  race 
and  the  finish  of  the  Caucasian  family. 

Or  we  would  imagine  that  the  prison  was  suddenly 
crushed  to  pieces  in  an  earthquake,  and  we  would 


184    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

begin  to  speculate  on  the  menace  of  our  presence  to 
a  terror-stricken  society.  No  subject  was  too  ridicu- 
lous to  beguile  an  hour  away. 

Porter  was  not  supposed  to  visit  the  post-office  while 
he  was  on  duty  at  the  hospital.  As  he  never  violated 
any  of  the  prison  rules,  he  always  made  it  a  point  to 
come  on  business.  Billy  Raidler  was  a  semi-invalid, 
and  offered  an  unfaihng  excuse.  Billy's  amber  hair 
was  falling  out.  He  hounded  Porter  to  bring  him  a 
remedy. 

"Look  here,  Bill,"  the  ex-train  robber  would  say, 
"if  you  could  get  the  arsenic  out  of  that  rock-ribbed 
old  Coffin  why  can't  you  rouse  the  hair  that  ought 
to  be  on  my  scalp?" 

Warden  Coffin,  by  some  mistake,  had  been  given 
an  overdose  of  arsenic.  Antidotes  failed.  Porter 
was  called  in.  He  saved  the  life  of  Coffin.  This  in- 
cident happened  before  my  arrival  at  the  "pen,"  but 
Raidler  never  gave  Porter  any  peace  about  it.  Por- 
ter always  maintained  that  the  warden  was  dying  of 
fright,  not  of  the  arsenic.  He  said  his  antidote  was 
"simplicity." 

"Simplicity  or  duphcity,"  Raidler  countered,  "you 
interfered  wdth  the  ways  of  Divine  Providence,  Bill, 
when  you  saved  Coffin's  life.  Now  come  through 
and  give  the  archduke  a  helping  hand.  Put  a  little 
fertihzer  on  this  unirrigated  thatch  of  mine." 

So  Porter  came  over  one  day,  looking  very  im- 
portant and  complacent.  One  short,  fat  hand  was 
stuck  in  his  vest  and  in  the  other  he  carried  a  glove. 
Porter  was  an  unmitigated  dandy,  even  in  the  prison. 
He  liked  rich,  well-fitting  clothes.  He  abhorred  noisy 


WITH  O.  HENRY  185 

styles  or  colors.  I  never  saw  him  when  he  was  not 
well  groomed  and  neat  in  liis  appearance. 

"Adonis  Raidler,"  Porter  ceremoniously  laid  the 
glove  on  the  desk  and  drew  forth  a  bulky,  odorous 
package,  "behold  the  peerless  hair-regenerator  com- 
pounded after  tireless,  scientific  research  by  one  un- 
redeemed Bill  Porter." 

Raidler  grabbed  the  bottle  and  pulled  out  the  cork. 
The  heavy  pungence  of  wintergreen  filled  the  office. 

"The  scent  is  in  harmony  with  your  esthetic  soul, 
Billy,"  Porter  said.  "Elusive  fragrance  might  not 
reach  that  olfactory  nerve  of  yours." 

Billy  doused  some  of  the  liquid  on  his  head  and  be- 
ban  to  rub  it  viciously  in.  He  had  the  most  child-like 
faith  in  Porter's  genius  as  a  chemist.  Every  night 
after  that  I  went  to  sleep  fairly  drugged  by  the  cloud 
of  v/intergreen  under  which  Billy  submerged  him- 
self. 

Every  morning  he  would  bring  over  the  comb  to 
show  me  that  fewer  hairs  had  come  out  than  the  day 
before.  Whatever  Billy  wanted  his  hair  for,  none  of 
us  could  understand.  The  hair-restorer  was  nothing 
but  bum  bay  rum  outraged  by  an  overdose  of  winter- 
green  fragrance.  Either  Porter's  patent,  Billy's  mas- 
saging or  his  faith  stopped  the  emigration  of  his  hair. 

"Now  that  your  locks,  thanks  to  my  scientific  skill, 
promise  to  grow  as  long  as  a  musician's,"  Porter 
boasted,  "why  not  get  a  fife,  Billy,  and  learn  to  play 
it?  The  colonel  here  will  teach  you.  And  then  the 
three  of  us  will  set  forth  from  this  fortress  of  mighty 
stone  and  like  troubadours  of  old  we  will  go  a-min- 
streling  from  village  to  village  1" 


186    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Porter  had  a  guitar  and  he  picked  it  with  graceful 
touch.  I  played  the  tuba.  If  Billy  could  only  play 
the  fife,  what  a  j  oyous  troupe  we  would  make ! 

The  idea  tickled  Porter.  He  was  really  in  earnest 
about  it.  I  tliink  his  ideal  of  existence  was  just  such 
a  free  vagabondage.  Many  and  many  a  time  in  the 
post-office  he  had  brought  up  the  subject. 

"Will  you  get  that  fife,  Billy?"  he  said  one  night. 
"I  have  a  plan.  We  will  go  over  and  serenade  Miles 
Ogle.  If  he  likes  the  tufted  tinkle  of  our  mellow 
madness,  why  forth  let  us  stride  to  woo  the  belle 
demoiselles  of  all  Beautydom!" 

Miles  Ogle  w^as  the  greatest  counterfeiter  in  the 
United  States.  He  was  serving  a  long  sentence  at 
the  Ohio  "pen." 

"Would  it  not  be  kind  to  trill  forth  a  gladsome 
melody  to  Miles?"  Porter's  low,  whispering  voice  lent 
an  air  of  mystery  to  his  lightest  comment.  I  always 
felt  like  a  conspirator  when  his  hushed  tones  kept  us 
captive.  "Miles,  you  know,  has  a  wholesome  appre- 
ciation of  the  golden  note!" 

Porter  often  spoke  to  me  in  these  later  prison  days 
of  his  serenading  in  Austin.  He  said  that  he  belonged 
to  a  troupe  of  singers.  "We  went  about  playing  and 
serenading  at  the  windows  of  all  the  fair  maids  in 
Austin!"  Playing,  singing,  writing  a  sonnet,  sketch- 
ing a  cartoon — what  a  lovable  ne'er-do-well  he  would 
have  been  if  this  very  breezy  negligence  had  not 
caught  him  in  a  net  of  unfortunate  circumstances  at 
the  bank.  , 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  more  delightful,"  he  said, 
"than  to  strap  a  harp  to  my  back  and  saunter  from 


WITH  O.  HENRY  187 

castle  to  castle  living  in  the  gracious  beauty  of  poetry 
and  music. 

"We  have  the  dungeon  here,  but  we  lack  both  the 
drawbridge  and  the  castle.  How  sweet  it  would  be 
to  sit  in  the  silver  moonlight,  to  summon  the  fairies 
from  their  leafy  pavilions  with  the  strains  of  our 
warblings!  And  then  to  lie  back  on  the  grass  and 
weave  fantastic  dreams  to  lighten  the  drab  heart  of 
the  world!" 

Porter  was  feeling  very  gay  this  night.  A  hope 
he  had  silently  cherished.  As  always  he  came  over 
to  share  his  happiness.  He  had  won  an  honor  craved 
by  every  convict  in  the  *'stir." 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  post-office  door.  Billy 
opened  it  and  took  something  from  the  prisoner 
standing  there  and  softly  closed  the  door.  He  handed 
a  card  to  me.  In  his  own  handwriting  was  Bill  Por- 
ter's name  and  underneath  a  drawing  of  the  steward's 
office. 

*'Who  brought  the  card?"  I  asked. 

*'Bill;  he's  out  there.  Shall  I  let  him  in?"  Raidler 
was  in  a  whimsical  mood.  The  light  tap  was  repeated. 
I  answered  it. 

"Gentlemen,  why  be  so  exclusive?"  Porter  walked 
in  with  a  very  pompous  air,  his  shoulders  thrown 
back  in  an  exaggerated  swagger.  "Permit  me  to  in- 
form you  that  I  have  changed  my  residence.  The  card 
will  enlighten  you  as  to  my  present  domicile.  I  moved 
to-day." 

There  was  a  new  enthusiasm  in  his  bantering  voice. 
Porter  had  been  appointed  secretary  to  the  steward. 
The  position,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  secre- 


188    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

taryship  to  the  warden,  was  the  best  in  the  pen.  It 
took  him  beyond  the  walls.  The  steward's  office  was 
directly  across  the  street  from  the  pen,  the  edge  of 
the  building  skirting  the  river. 

"Colonel,  you  would  envy  me — '*  the  voice  was  a 
low  chuckle. 

"I  have  a  desk  near  the  window — a  big  desk  with 
pigeon-holes.  I  have  all  the  books  I  want.  I  can 
read  and  think  without  interruption.  Now  I  can  do 
something." 

Seldom  had  Porter  alluded  to  his  ambition  to  write. 
We  sent  out  some  of  his  stories,  but  he  let  us  think 
they  were  done  just  for  diversion.  The  new  position 
gave  him  plenty  of  opportunity  to  try  out  his  talents. 
He  spent  every  spare  moment  "practicing,"  as  he 
used  to  put  it. 

We  talked  about  literature  and  its  purposes  very 
often  now,  for  I  was  even  freer  than  Bill.  I  had  been 
made  secretary  to  Warden  Darby.  I  had  even  man- 
aged to  worm  myself  out  of  convict  clothes.  When 
I  went  into  Darby's  office  I  was  brought  into  con- 
tact with  all  the  distinguished  visitors  of  the  State 
and  Nation. 

"I  look  pretty  shabby,"  I  hinted  to  Darby.  "I 
ought  to  be  more  up  to  my  position."  He  turned  to 
me. 

"Sure,"  he  said;  "go  over  to  the  State  shop  and  get 
the  best  suit  of  clothes  you  can  order." 

He  meant  the  best  suit  of  convict  clothes.  I  picked 
out  a  fine  piece  of  serge  and  ordered  as  clever  a  suit  as 
the  Governor  might  have  worn.  When  Darby  saw 
me  without  the  stripes,  he  gasped. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  18^ 

"Pretty  slick/'  was  the  only  comment  he  made.  I 
never  wore  the  stripes  again. 

Nearly  every  night  Porter  would  come  across  the 
street  to  visit  Billy  and  me.  We  would  talk  by  the 
hour,  filling  him  up  on  the  exploits  of  bandit  days, 
spinning  out  the  yarns  in  choice  outlaw  lingo.  He 
listened  captive.  The  stories  seemed  to  suggest  ideas 
to  him.  He  never  used  anything  just  as  it  was  told 
to  him. 

"You  ought  to  startle  the  world,"  he  said  to  me  one 
day. 

"How,  by  shooting  it  up?" 

"No,  colonel,  but  you  have  a  wonderful  lot  of 
stories.  You  can  view  life  from  a  thousand  view- 
points." 

I  often  wondered  at  Porter's  methods.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  he  overlooked  innumerable  stories  by  his 
aloofness.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  the  slightest  de- 
sire to  ferret  out  the  secrets  of  the  men  in  the  pen. 
The  convict  as  a  subject  for  his  stories  did' not  appeal 
to  him. 

I  am  convinced  that  he  felt  himself  different  from 
the  average  criminal.  It  was  not  until  he  returned  to 
the  world  and  suffered  from  its  coldness  that  his  sym- 
pathies were  broadened  and  his  prejudices  mellowed. 

One  very  odd  experience  revealed  this  trait  in  Por- 
ter. I  used  to  play  in  the  prison  band  every  Sunday 
at  chapel.  One  morning  a  song  thrilled  out  from  the 
women's  loft. 

It  was  the  most  magnificent  contralto  voice  I  have 
ever  heard.  It  had  a  purple  depth  and  intensity  of 
feeling  in  its  tones  and  at  times  there  was  a  mournful. 


190    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

piercing  pathos  in  it  that  struck  into  the  soul  like  a 
heartbroken  wail. 

I  looked  up,  trying  to  trace  the  voice  to  its  owner. 
And  finally  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  tall,  proud  looking 
girl — a  Southerner  of  exceeding  beauty — was  the 
singer.  Her  skin  was  moon  white  in  its  purity,  she 
had  splendid  gray  eyes  and  hair  that  fell  in  a  golden 
radiance  about  her  face.    I  became  greatly  interested. 

^'There's  a  girl  in  the  pen.  Bill,"  I  told  Porter,  "and 
you  want  to  come  to  chapel  next  Sunday  and  hear 
her  sing." 

''Colonel,  I  fear  you  jest.  I  wouldn't  go  into  the 
chapel  to  hear  the  seven  choirs  of  angels  let  alone  a 
wretched  feminine  convict!" 

Mrs.  Mattie  Brown  was  matron  of  the  women's 
ward.  I  was  sent  over  on  business.  I  took  the  chance 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity. 

"Who  is  the  prima  donna  that  sings  on  Sundays?" 
I  asked. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?"  the  matron  said,  look- 
ing at  me  with  quiet  interest.  "You  might  be  able  to 
put  in  a  good  word  for  her  and  maybe  get  her  a  par- 
don. She's  a  good  girl."  Mrs,  Brown  was  always 
trying  to  help  the  women  convicts.  Her  understand- 
ing was  as  warm  as  the  sun  and  as  deep  as  the  sea. 

"It's  a  terrible  thing  to  get  it  the  way  she  did,"  the 
matron  said.  *  'She's  in  on  a  charge  of  murder.  She 
got  life  for  it." 

The  girl  came  down.  She  was  very  slender  and  the 
cheap,  calico  polka-dot  dress  was  out  of  tone  with  her 
rich  beauty.  She  looked  like  a  young  queen,  whose 
rags  could  not  conceal  her  distinction. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  191 

As  soon  as  she  stood  before  me  I  was  embarrassed. 
I  did  not  like  to  ask  her  questions,  but  for  once  in  my 
life  curiosity  obsessed  me.    I  tokl  her  so. 

"Your  singing  attracted  me,"  I  said.  "I  listen  for 
it  every  Sunday." 

A  bitter  shadow  went  like  an  ugly  blot  across  her 
face  and  the  girl  looked  up,  her  clear  eyes  marred  by 
their  look  of  self-abasement. 

"Sing?  Oh,  yes;  I  can  sing,"  the  voice  that  was 
like  amber  honej?^  mocked.  "I  sang  myself  into  hell. 
I  don't  mind  telling  you.  It  isn't  often  that  anyone 
is  interested  enough  to  listen.  My  people  haven't 
come  near  me.  They  think  I  disgraced  them.  Maybe 
so,  I  don't  care.  I  haven't  seen  a  soul  from  the  out- 
side in  four  years.  One  good  thing  about  prisons, 
though,  you  don't  live  very  long  in  them." 

The  cynical  despondency  of  this  girl,  who  was  not 
more  than  25,  robbed  me  of  composure.  I  couldn't 
think  of  a  thing  to  say  to  her.  She  was  high  bred  and 
nervous. 

"Isn't  it  terrible  to  be  scoffed  at  and  have  your 
friends  put  their  hands  over  their  mouths  and  whis- 
per 'Murderess'  when  you  pass?  Oh — I  know — '^ 
a  shudder  caught  her.  "That's  what  happened  to 
me!"  her  lips  suddenly  trembled  and  her  chin  shook 
pitifully.  She  turned  and  rushed  sobbing  down  the 
corridor. 

As  the  girl's  rough  calico  whisked  around  the  cor- 
ner, the  matron  shock  her  head. 

"I  made  a  mistake,  I  shouldn't  have  brought  her 
down.  I  didn't  think  it  would  affect  her  so.  Now 
she'll  be  melancholy  for  a  week.     Isn't  she  a  pitiful 


192    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

figure!    I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  herl" 

"Was  she  guilty?" 

"Its  pretty  hard  to  say.  A  man  about  killed 
Sally's  baby.  The  man  was  the  baby's  father.  Sally 
turned  around  and  shot  him  through  the  heart.  She's 
glad  about  it.     I  mean  she's  glad  about  the  killing. 

"It  was  shameful  the  way  her  mother  and  her  sis- 
ters went  back  on  her.  She  sat  in  the  court  all  alone 
and  not  a  soul  was  with  her  when  she  was  condemned. 
They  took  her  off  to  the  pen  as  though  she  were  a 
gutter  snipe. 

"And  Sally  had  supported  that  mother  and  sisters. 
It  was  her  singing  that  kept  them  from  starvation." 

Sally  Castleton  was  sent  up  from  Hamilton  county 
(Cincinnati)  for  Hfe.  The  war  had  robbed  her  peo- 
ple of  their  wealth,  but  not  of  their  pride.  It  was 
more  in  keeping  with  their  type  of  dignity  to  starve 
than  to  send  their  daughters  to  work. 

Sally  had  a  gift  in  her  voice.  She  sang  in  the  choir 
of  a  Cincinnati  cathedral.  The  family  managed  to 
exist  on  what  she  earned. 

The  son  of  a  banker  in  Cincinnati  began  to  attend 
the  services.  It  was  the  old  tale.  He  saw  Sally. 
They  were  both  young.  The  girl  was  attractive  far 
beyond  the  measure  of  average  loveliness.  They 
loved. 

There  were  picnics  in  the  suburbs.  The  banker's 
son  came  down  to  be  with  Sally.  There  were  rides 
in  a  four-in-hand.  Old  women  would  run  to  the 
windows  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  handsome  banker 
and  the  town's  beauty.  It  would  be  a  fine  match  and 
an  honor  to  the  community. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  193 

After  a  while  the  banker's  son  came  less  and  less 
to  Hamilton  county.  And  one  night  Sally  ran  away 
and  didn't  return. 

She  went  to  Cincinnati  and  got  a  job  in  a  laundry. 
She  saved  up  every  penny.  She  never  asked  aid  of 
anyone. 

The  matron  told  me  half  the  story.  Sally  finished 
it  one  day  a  week  later  when  I  met  her  in  the  matron's 
office. 

"Why  didn't  I  go  to  him?  Oh— I  knew— "  Sally 
clasped  her  hands.  They  were  delicate  as  white 
flowers.  "I  knew,"  she  went  on,  after  a  wistful  pause, 
*'he  wouldn't  want  to  be  bothered.  I  didn't  want  to 
hear  him  tell  me  to  go  away. 

"You  see,  well,  as  long  as  I  didn't  absolutely  know 
what  he  would  say,  I  could  comfort  myself  imagining 
that  he  was  thinking  of  me  and  wondering  what  had 
become  of  me.  I  used  to  lie  awake  at  night.  I  was 
too  tired  to  sleep. 

"I  would  see  him  rushing  about  the  city  looking  for 
me.  Then  he  would  find  me  and  tell  me  not  to  worry 
— it  would  be  all  right.    It  was  easy  to  console  myself. 

"But  I  knew  I  was  foohng  myself.  I  knew  he 
would  have  turned  his  back  on  me.  He  just  changed 
all  at  once  when  he  knew.  He  looked  at  me  with  a 
glance  of  such  disgust  and  hatred  I  felt  as  if  a  cold 
frost  spread  over  me.  He  grabbed  up  his  hat  and 
ran  down  the  walk.  Then  he  turned  and  came  back, 
and  tried  to  be  kind. 

"  *Sally,  I'll  look  out  for  you,  I'll  come  again  next 
Sunday,*  he  said.  I  beheved  him  and  I  waited  and 
waited.    I  made  up  excuses  for  him.    But  at  last  I 


194    THUOUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

knew  that  he  was  never  going  to  come.  I  couldn't 
stand  the  way  my  mother  and  sisters  looked  at  me. 
One  night  I  tied  up  a  few  things  in  a  bundle  and 
sneaked  out  the  kitchen  door  after  they  were  all  in 
bed." 

Sally  had  saved  up  enough  for  her  expenses. 
When  the  baby  was  a  few  weeks  old  she  went  back  to 
work  in  the  laundry.  The  old  woman  where  she 
roomed  looked  after  the  little  thing.  But  when  it 
was  five  or  six  months  old  it  got  sick  and  Sally  had 
to  quit  and  take  care  of  it. 

It  was  all  right  as  long  as  the  little  money  lasted. 
Sally's  funds  were  very  small.  She  gave  up  eating 
and  spent  the  money  for  medicine  for  the  baby.  It 
didn't  get  any  better.  She  couldn't  afford  a  doctor. 
She  was  beside  herself  with  misery. 

"If  you  knew  how  it  looked!"  Sally  pressed  her 
hands  together,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "It  had 
such  a  dear  little  white  face  and  the  biggest  blue  eyes. 
It  would  turn  its  head  and  its  poor  little  mouth  would 
struggle  as  if  it  wanted  to  cry,  but  was  too  feeble. 
It  broke  my  heart  to  watch  it. 

"I  just  got  frantic.  I  used  to  hold  it  in  my  arms, 
its  face  pressed  against  my  throat  and  sometimes  I 
could  scarcely  feel  its  breath.  I  would  run  up  and 
down  the  room.  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  it  for  fear  it 
was  dying  on  me. 

"Oh,  God,  you  don't  know  how  terrible  it  is  to  see 
the  only  thing  you  have  in  the  world  just  getting 
weaker  and  weaker  and  nothing  done  to  help  it.  I 
never  slept — I  got  so  I  just  prayed  and  prayed  to 
keep  it  with  me. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  195 

*'And  one  day  it  took  a  spasm.  I  thought  it  was 
gone.  I  didn't  care  what  I  did.  I  would  have  crawled 
in  the  dust  to  save  it. 

"I  went  to  the  bank.  I  waited  outside  for  him.  He 
came  down  the  steps.  I  followed,  waiting  until  no 
one  was  near.  Then  I  edged  quietly  up  to  him. 
Thii;  I  said. 

"He  stiffened  up  as  though  an  electric  shock  had 
gone  through  him.  He  turned  to  me  in  angry  con- 
tempt, 'What  are  you  dogging  me  for?' 

*'It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  crying.  He 
hurried  off  and  I  went  stumbling  after  him.  I  caught 
him  by  the  sleeve. 

"  'Phil,  the  baby  is  dying.  I  haven't  a  cent.  Oh,  I 
wouldn't  let  you  do  anything  for  it  if  I  could  only 
keep  it  alive  myself.  I  haven't  eaten  anything  but 
tea  and  bread  for  weeks.  And  now  my  last  nickel  is 
gone.  Phil,  will  you  pay  for  a  doctor  for  it?  It's 
yours,  Phil,  your  very  own.  It's  the  image  of  you. 
It  has  your  eyes.' 

"For  a  minute  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  look  of  exulta- 
tion went  across  his  face.  But  maybe  I  imagined  it, 
for  he  caught  my  fingers  and  knocked  them  off  his 
arm  as  though  I  were  a  leper. 

"It  does,  does  it?  Well,  if  it's  dying,  let  it  die.  I 
can't  keep  it  alive.    Is  it  my  fault  if  it  wants  to  die?" 

"No,  no,  it's  not  your  fault.  But  will  you  help? 
Will  you  pay  for  the  doctor — will  you  help  me  to 
take  care  of  it?" 

"  'Say,  beat  it  and  be  damn'  quick  about  it,'  he  an- 
swered. I  couldn't  beheve  it.  I  kept  on  talking  and 
walking  at  his  side.    I  don't  know  what  I  said.    We 


196    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

passed  a  policeman.  He  stopped.  ^Officer,'  he  said, 
*arrest  this  rag-picker,  will  you?'" 

They  arrested  Sally  and  took  her  to  the  Cincinnati 
jail.  The  man  had  sworn  to  a  warrant  charging  her 
with  attempted  blackmail.  The  days  passed.  The 
case  was  not  called. 

Every  day  w^as  an  agony  for  Sally.  The  thought 
of  the  dying  baby  was  like  a  hot  coal  on  the  girl's 
mind.  She  went  to  the  matron  about  it.  The  matron 
went  out  to  see  the  baby.  When  she  returned  she  told 
Sally  she  had  taken  it  to  a  hospital. 

The  Salvation  Army  used  to  visit  the  jail  and  get 
the  prisoners  to  sing  h^mns.  Sally  joined  in  the 
chorus.  A  male  prisoner  heard  her.  He  went  out 
the  next  day  for  the  Ohio  pen  to  spend  the  rest  of  his 
life  there.  But  he  left  a  present  for  Sally  with  the 
desk  sergeant.  "Give  these  two  bucks  to  the  girl 
with  the  voice,  will  you?"  he  said.  "Her  singing 
did  a  lot  for  me." 

Sally  was  finally  called  before  the  night  court.  The 
man  did  not  appear.  She  was  dismissed  with  a  repri- 
mand. As  she  passed  the  desk  sergeant  he  handed 
her  the  two  dollars.  The  gift  finished  the  wreck  of 
Sally's  broken  life. 

She  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  out  she  ran  down 
the  halls,  the  matron  rushing  along  at  her  side.  "It's 
too  bad,  honey,  they  brought  you  in  here.  You  didn't 
deserve  it.  I'm  awful  sorry  for  you."  As  Sally 
got  to  the  door,  she  touched  her  elbow. 

"Honey,  I  hate  to  tell  you — the  poor  little  baby 
is  dead!" 

It  was  like  a  ruffian  blow  struck  across  the  face 


WITH  O.  HENRY  197 

of  a  little  child.     It  stunned  Sally— left  her  limp 
and  quivering.     The  baby  was  dead — 

With  a  feeble,  tormented  sob,  she  put  her  hands 
over  her  head  and  began  to  run  as  though  men  and 
women  were  chasing  her,  pelting  her  with  stones. 

"Listen,  honey,''  the  matron  caught  up  with  her. 
*'You  can  stay  here.    It  won't  do  you  no  good  to  get 

out.  The  baby  died  three  days  ago.  Stay  here  for 
a  while." 

"Oh,  God,  no.    Let  me  get  out." 

The  door  opened  and  the  half -demented  creature 
ran  out,  one  thought  uppermost.  She  would  go 
down  to  the  river.  The  blasting  wind  tore  the  clothes 
almost  off  her  back.     The  chill  went  to  the  marrow. 

A  light  flared  out  from  a  shop  window,  the  girl 
dalKed  a  moment  in  its  warmth.  Old  jewelry,  em- 
blems, silver  plate  glinted  in  the  show  case.  In  one 
corner  were  tliree  revolvers.  Sally  looked  at  them 
fascinated.    A  cold  fury  of  revenge  swept  over  her. 

Up  to  that  moment  the  anguish  of  loss  ate  at  her — 
she  had  seen  only  the  suffering  baby  face.  Now  she 
saw  the  man  and  the  lashing  contempt  on  his  hand- 
some features.  She  went  in  and  bought  one  of  the 
pistols. 

As  soon  as  she  had  it  in  her  hands,  it  seemed  pull- 
ing her  down  like  a  coffin  weight.  She  dropped  it 
in  her  blouse  and  went  out,  scooting  down  one  street 
and  up  another,  so  cold,  so  frenzied,  so  impatient  for 
the  morning  to  come  she  did  not  even  know  that 
she  was  crying  and  caUing  out  in  her  misery  until  a 
drunken  old  woman  stopped  her. 

The  bedraggled  old  creature  took  hold  of  her  and 


198    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Sally  let  herself  be  jostled  along  to  the  dark,  wretched 
hole  where  the  woman  lived.  She  lit  a  charcoal  stove, 
and  in  its  feeble  glow  Sally  tried  to  warm  herself. 

The  damp  hole  was  alive  with  baleful  shadows. 
[Across  the  bare  walls  evil  figures  passed.  Now  it 
was  the  man  as  he  stood  rigid  and  beckoned  to  the 
police — now  the  hulking  officer  lurching  forward, 
grabbing  her  by  the  shoulders.  And  again  it  was 
the  mother  and  sisters,  hunting  the  girl  down  with 
their  scornful  looks. 

Only  once  did  Sally  see  the  baby.  It  seemed  to  be 
lying  on  the  floor,  its  mouth  writhing,  its  little  hands 
opening  and  closing.  The  father  walked  up  to  it  and 
brought  his  boot  down  on  the  plaintive  little  face, 
crushing  the  scalp  and  manghng  the  tender  flesh. 

*'God,  God,  save!"  Sally  called  out  as  the  night- 
mare passed. 

At  last  it  was  morning.  Sally  had  to  wait  until 
noon.  Not  for  one  moment  had  her  resolution  fal- 
tered. She  went  straight  to  the  bank  and  stood  be- 
hind a  column  waiting  for  the  man.  It  seemed  that 
every  one  in  the  building  rushed  out  at  the  stroke  of 
12 — every  one  but  Philip  Austin. 

Sally  began  to  tremble.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
pocket.  The  pistol  was  there.  "Send  him  out  quick, 
quick,"  she  chattered  in  an  insane  prayer.  "Send 
him  out  before  I  lose  courage." 

Down  the  street  came  a  policeman.  Sally  cow- 
ered behind  the  stone  pillar.  The  officer  eyed  her, 
walked  a  few  paces,  looked  back  and  went  on. 

"Nobody  here  now,  nobody  here,"  Sally  muttered 
to  herself.     "Send  him  out  now." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  199 

A  big  form  strode  down  the  corridor  and  the  next 
second  Philip  Austin  swung  through  the  door. 
Proud  and  magnificent,  he  walked  like  a  prince.  He 
walked  as  he  did  that  joyous  day  when  he  swept  his 
hat  do^vn  in  a  lordly  salute  as  Sally  came  down  the 
cathedral  steps.  He  had  the  same  kingly  smile  on 
his  lips. 

Sally's  nerve  went  loose  as  a  taut  string  when  one 
end  is  suddenly  released.  She  ran  up  to  him  piti- 
ful, distracted,  beside  herself  with  misery. 

"Phil — oh,  Phil,  the  baby  died!  You  put  me  in 
jail — and  it  died.  It  died  without  any  one  near  it. 
It  died  because  you  wouldn't  take  care  of  it."  , 

Not  knowing  what  she  was  doing  or  saying  in  her 
beating  grief,  Sally  flung  herself  into  Austin's  arms. 

"The  baby  died— it's  dead,  dead.  Oh,  Phil,  the 
baby  is  dead!" 

With  one  swift,  angry  wrench  the  man  caught  her 
violently  by  the  wrists. 

" you,  you  little  hag — what  do  I 

care  about  your  brat!  Let  it  die.  Now  go — and 
don't  hang  around  slopping  tears  at  me.  Let  the 
brat  die!" 

Cold,  scornful  contempt  scowling  his  features, 
Austin  went  to  shove  Sally  from  him.  There  was  a 
little  gasp,  a  tussle,  a  scream  of  hurt,  sobbing  agony, 
and  the  double-action  revolver  was  jammed  against 
the  man's  stomach. 

"You  don't  care?  Oh,  God!"  The  trigger 
snapped. 

"He  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye.  He  looked 
startled  and  frightened.    He  knew  I  did  it.    I  saw  it 


200    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

in  his  eye.  He  looked  at  me  for  just  a  moment  and 
then  he  went  down  in  a  slump  as  though  his  backbone 
had  suddenly  melted." 

From  everywhere  men  and  women  darted  into  the 
street.  They  leaned  over  the  prostrate  form.  And 
when  they  saw  that  the  banker's  son  was  dead,  they 
turned  on  Sally  with  their  fists  and  one  giant  tore 
her  cheek  open  with  a  vicious  blow. 

"But  he  knew  I  did  it.  I  saw  that  in  his  last 
glance!"  Sally's  face  was  daubed  with  tears,  but 
there  was  a  triumphant  smile  in  her  eye  at  the  mem- 
ory of  Austin's  death.  *' That's  satisfaction  enough 
for  me.     I'm  content  to  spend  my  days  here." 

The  girl's  trial  had  taken  just  one  day.  The  jury 
found  her  guilty.  She  was  nineteen.  That  fact 
saved  her  from  the  death  penalty. 

Sally  was  a  Southerner,  with  all  the  hot,  proud 
vengeance  of  Kentucky  in  her  veins.  Her  story 
moved  me  more  than  all  the  horrors  I  had  felt  in 
prison.  I  could  understand  the  murderous  fury  that 
swept  over  her  when  the  fellow  turned  her  down.  I 
went  to  the  w^arden's  office  and  blurted  the  whole 
story  out  to  him. 

*'When  I  hear  things  like  this,  I  want  to  leave  the 
damn'  hell."  Darby  did  resign  eventually  because 
he  could  not  endure  the  job  of  electrocuting  the  con- 
demned. "But  some  one's  got  to  be  here.  I  hope  I 
do  the  service  well." 

Darby  said  he  would  try  for  a  pardon.  It  would 
have  been  granted  on  his  recommendation,  but  the 
family  of  the  dead  man  heard  about  it.  They  weren't 
satisfied  with  the  mischief  their  blackguard  son  had 


WITH  O.  HENRY  201' 

already  done.  They  went  to  work  and  villiiied  Sally 
until  there  wasn't  a  scrap  of  flesh  left  on  her  bones. 
The  pardon  was  denied. 

Every  time  I  heard  that  voice  with  its  cascade  of 
golden  notes  rippling  down  from  the  convict  wom- 
en's loft  in  the  chapel  it  sent  daggers  through  me. 

This  was  a  tale,  it  seemed  to  me,  worthy  of  the 
genius  of  Bill  Porter.  I  told  it  to  him  the  next  after- 
noon. He  listened  rather  indifferently  and  when  I 
was  finished,  he  turned  to  Billy  Raidler,  "I've 
brought  you  a  box  of  cigars." 

I  was  furious  at  his  unmoved  coldness.  I  turned 
my  back  on  him  in  angry  humiliation.  I  wanted 
Porter  to  write  a  story  about  Sally — to  make  the 
world  ring  with  indignation  over  the  wrong  that  had 
been  done.  And  the  story  did  not  seem  to  make  the 
slightest  impression  on  him.  At  that  time  my  taste 
ran  entirely  to  the  melodrama.  I  could  not  under- 
stand Porter's  saner  discrimination. 

He  had  distinct  theories  as  to  the  purpose  of  the 
short  story.  We  often  discussed  it.  Now  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  was  deliberately  refusing  to  carry  out 
his  ideas. 

"The  short  story,"  he  used  to  say,  "is  a  potent 
medium  of  education.  It  should  combine  humor  and 
pathos.  It  should  break  down  prejudice  with  under- 
standing. I  propose  to  send  the  down-and-outers 
into  the  drawing-rooms  of  the  'get-it-alls,'  and  I 
intend  to  insure  their  welcome.  All  that  the  world 
needs  is  a  little  more  sympathy.  I'm  going  to  make 
the  American  Four  Hundred  step  into  the  shoes  of 
the  Fom^  Million." 


202    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Porter  said  this  long  before  any  of  the  stories  that 
inake  up  "The  Four  Million"  had  been  written. 

*'Don't  you  think  Sally's  story  has  the  real  heart 
Ihrob  in  it?" 

"Colonel,  the  pulse  beats  too  loud,"  Porter  yawned. 
**It's  very  commonplace." 

"And  so  is  all  life  commonplace,"  I  fired  back. 
*^That's  just  what  genius  is  for — you're  supposed  to 
take  the  mean  and  the  ordinary  and  tell  it  in  a  vital 
way — in  a  way  that  makes  the  old  drab  flesh  of  us 
glow  with  a  new  light." 

I  also  was  writing  a  story  in  those  days  and  I  had 
my  own  methods  and  theories.  They  usually  dried 
out  when  I  tried  to  run  them  into  the  ink  well  and 
onto  the  paper. 

There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  coax  Porter  into  con- 
versation when  he  was  not  in  the  mood.  If  a  thing 
didn't  catch  his  interest  at  once,  it  never  did.  There 
were  no  trials  over  with  him.  The  sHghtest  detail 
would  sometimes  absorb  him  and  seem  to  fill  him 
with  inspiration.  And  again,  a  drama  would  pass 
before  him  and  he  would  let  it  go  unmarked.  I  knew 
this.  I  had  seen  him  coolly  ignore  Louisa  and  old 
man  Carnot  often  enough.  But  I  was  just  goaded 
into  persistence. 

"Sally  has  a  face  hke  Diana,"  I  said. 

"When  did  you  meet  the  goddess,  colonel?"  Porter 
Ijested,  all  at  once  absorbed  in  flicking  a  bit  of  dust 
from  his  sleeve.  "Convict  wool  is  shoddy  enough, 
let  alone  a  convict  bundle  of  muslin." 

A  few  years  later.  I  saw  this  very  same  man  go 
into  all  the  honkatonks  of  New  York  and  no  woman 


WITH  O.  HENRY  203 

was  too  low  to  win  courtesy  from  Bill  Porter.  I 
have  seen  him  treat  the  veriest  old  hag  with  the 
chivalry  due  a  queen. 

His  indifference  to  Sally^s  plight  was  singular. 
If  he  had  seen  her  and  talked  to  her  I  know  it  would 
have  gripped  him  to  the  heart. 

Porter  saw  that  I  was  bitterly  wounded  and  in  the 
petting  kind  of  a  way  he  had  he  came  over  to  win 
me  back. 

*'  Colonel,  please  don't  be  angry  with  me.  You 
misunderstand  me.  I  wasn't  thinking  much  of  Sally 
tonight.  My  mind  was  far  away,"  he  laughed.  "It 
was  down  in  Mexico,  perhaps,  where  that  indolent, 
luxurious  valley  of  yours  is  and  where  we  might 
have  been  happy. 

"Colonel,"  Porter's  face  lighted  with  humorous 
eagerness,  "do  you  think  we  stand  any  chance  to  col- 
lect that  $7,000  you  paid  down  on  it?  I'm  a  little  in 
need  of  funds." 

Not  many  could  resist  the  winning  magnetism  of 
Bill  Porter  if  he  chose  to  make  himself  agreeable. 
As  soon  as  he  had  spoken  I  knew  that  some  secret 
grief  was  tugging  at  liim.  Porter  had  labored  hard 
over  some  story — Billy  Raidler  had  sent  it  out  in  the 
usual  way  for  him.  It  had  come  back.  He  jested 
about  it. 

"The  average  editor,"  he  said,  "never  knows  a  fire- 
cracker until  he  hears  the  bang  of  its  explosion* 
Those  fellows  can't  tell  a  story  until  some  one  else 
takes  the  risk  of  setting  it  off." 

"They're  a  damn'  bunch  of  ignoramuses!"  Portei^ 
had  read  the  story  to  Billy  and  me  and  we  had  sent  it 


204    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

off  with  singing  hearts.     We  were  sure  the  world 
must  acknowledge  Porter,  even  as  we  did. 

*'A11  I'm  sorry  for  is  the  loss  of  the  stamps  Billy- 
was  forced  to  steal  from  the  State  to  mail  it  with. 
It  may  damage  the  reputation  of  the  State  board  of 
the  Ohio  penitentiary,"  Porter  replied,  but  he  was 
really  disappointed.  The  rejection  of  his  manuscripts 
did  not  dull  the  edge  of  his  self-confidence,  but  filled 
him  with  forebodings  as  to  his  future. 

"I  should  not  hke  to  be  a  beggar,  colonel,"  he  often 
said,  "and  my  pen  is  the  only  investment  I  can  make. 
I  am  continually  paying  assessments  on  it.  I  would 
like  to  collect  a  few  dividends." 

That  same  story  paid  its  dividends  later.  Porter 
revamped  it  here  and  there  and  it  made  a  big  hit  for 
him. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I'm  not  interested  in  Sally,"  he 
swung  back  to  the  subject  with  a  suddenness  that 
startled  me.  "She's  better  off  here  than  she  ever 
could  be  outside.  I  know  this  place  is  doom — but 
what  chance  has  a  girl  with  Sally's  past  in  the  world? 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  colonel,  when  you  plan  to 
send  the  girl  out  there  to  be  trampled  in  the  gutter?" 

Sally  said  almost  the  same  words  to  me  when  I 
tried  to  get  her  a  pardon  after  I  was  freed.  I  went 
back  to  the  pen  to  see  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Jennings!"  Her  face  had  grown  thin  and 
its  transparent  whiteness  made  her  seem  a  thing  of 
unearthly  spirituahty.  "Don't  bother  about  me. 
I'm  lost.  You  know  it.  Do  you  think  they  would 
ever  let  me  crawl  back?  You  know  I'm  a  bad 
woman. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  205 

"I  had  a  baby  that  I  didn't  have  any  right  to — do 
you  think  the  world  ever  forgives  such  a  crime  as 
that?  Leave  me  alone  here.  I'm  finished.  There's 
no  pardon  on  earth  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Defiance   of  Foley  the   Goat;    honesty  hounded;    O.   Henry's   scorn;    dis- 
ruption of  the  Recluse  Club. 

Sally  was  right.  There  was  no  place  for  her  in 
the  outside  world.  The  ex-convict  is  thrown  against 
a  social  and  economic  boycott  that  no  courage  or  per- 
sistence can  effectively  break. 

We  talked  about  it  often — Bill  Porter  and  I.  It 
was  the  topic  of  eternal  interest  just  as  the  discus- 
sion of  dress  is  with  women.  And  yet,  for  Porter,  this 
talk  about  the  future  was  an  unalloyed  torment.  It 
agitated  and  distressed  him.  He  would  come  into 
the  post-office  of  an  evening  and  we  would  gossip 
with  fluent  merriment.  Without  prelude,  one  of  us 
would  mention  a  con  who  had  been  sent  back  on 
another  jolt.  All  the  whimsical  Hght  that  usually 
played  about  his  large,  handsome  face  would  give 
place  to  a  shadow  of  heavy  gloom.  The  quick,  facile 
tongue  would  halt  its  whispering  banter. 

Bill  Porter,  the  wag,  became  Bill  Porter,  the  cynic. 
Fear  of  the  future  was  like  a  poisonous  serpent  that 
had  coiled  into  his  heart  and  lodged  there,  its  fangs 
striking  into  the  core  of  his  happiness. 

"The  prison  label  is  worse  than  the  brand  of  Cain," 
he  said  many  a  time.  "If  the  world  once  sees  it,  you 
are  doomed.  It  shall  not  see  it  on  me.  I  will  not 
become  an  outcast. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  207 

*'The  man  who  tries  to  hurl  himself  against  the    v 
tide  of  humanity  is  sure  to  be  sucked  down  in  the 
undertow.     I  am  going  to  swim  with  the  current." 

Porter  had  less  than  a  year  more  to  serve.  He 
was  already  planning  on  his  re-entrance  to  the  free 
world.  For  me  the  question  did  not  then  exist.  My 
sentence  was  hfe.  But  I  felt  that  Porter's  position 
was  false.  I  knew  that  it  would  mean  an  unsheathed 
sword  perpetually  hanging  over  his  head.  The  fear 
of  exposure  saddened  and  almost  tragically  hounded 
his  hfe. 

*'When  I  get  out,  I  will  bury  the  name  of  Bill 
Porter  in  the  depths  of  oblivion.  No  one  shall 
know  that  the  Ohio  penitentiary  ever  furnished  me 
with  board  and  bread. 

"I  will  not  and  I  could  not  endure  the  slanting, 
doubtful  scrutiny  of  ignorant  human  dogs  I" 

Porter  was  an  enigma  to  me  in  those  days.  There 
was  no  accounting  for  his  moods.  He  was  the  kind- 
est and  most  tolerant  of  men  and  yet  he  would  some- 
times launch  into  invective  against  humanity  that 
seemed  to  come  from  a  heart  charged  with  contemp- 
tuous anger  for  his  fellows.  I  learned  to  understand 
him  later.  He  liked  men ;  he  loathed  their  shams. 
'  The  freemasonry  of  honest  worth  was  the  only 
carte  blanche  to  his  friendship.  Porter  would  pick 
his  companions  from  the  slums  as  readily  as  from  the 
drawing-rooms.  He  was  an  aristocrat  in  his  culture 
and  his  temperament,  but  it  was  an  aristocracy  that 
paid  no  tribute  to  the  material  credentials  of  society. 

Money,  fine  clothes,  pose — they  could  not  hood- 
wink him.    He  could  not  abide  snobbery  or  insin- 


208    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

cerity.  He  wanted  to  meet  men  and  to  make  friends 
with  them — not  with  their  clothes  and  their  bank  ac- 
counts. He  knew  an  equal  even  when  hidden 
in  rags — and  he  could  scent  an  inferior  underneath 
a  wealth  of  purple  and  fine  linen. 

Porter  dealt  with  the  fundamentals  in  his  human 
relations.  He  went  down  under  the  skin.  And  so 
he  scoffed  at  conventional  standards  of  appraising 
men  and  women.  He  belittled  the  paltry  claims 
whereon  the  shallow  minded  based  their  supposed 
prestige. 

"Colonel,"  he  would  mock,  "I  have  a  proud  an- 
cestry. It  runs  back  thousands  and  thousands  of 
years.  Do  you  know,  I  can  trace  it  clear  back  to 
Adam! 

"The  man  I  would  like  to  meet  is  the  one  whose 
family  tree  does  not  take  its  root  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden.  What  an  oddity  he  would  have  to  be — a  sort 
of  spontaneous  creation. 

"And,  colonel,  if  the  first  families  only  looked  far 
enough  back,  they  would  find  their  poor,  miserable 
progenitors  blindly  wallowing  about  in  the  slime  of 
the  sea!" 

That  any  of  these  descendants  of  slime  should 
dare  to  look  down  upon  him  even  in  thought  was  in- 
tolerable. He  knew  himself  to  be  the  equal  of  all 
men.  His  fierce,  honest  independence  would  brook 
patronage  from  none. 

"I  won't  be  under  an  obligation  to  any  one.  When 
I  get  out  from  here  I'll  strike  free  and  bold.  No  one 
shall  hold  the  club  of  ex-convict  over  me." 

"Other  men  have  said  the  same."    I  felt  that  For- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  209 

ter's  attitude  lacked  courage.  "And  there  is  always 
some  one  to  hunt  them  down.  You  can't  get  away 
with  it." 

*'You  can't  beat  the  game  if  any  one  ever  finds  out 
you  once  were  a  number,"  Porter  flung  back,  riled 
and  indignant  that  he  was  forced  to  defend  himself. 
**The  only  way  to  win  is  to  conceal." 

Every  day  incidents  happened  to  bear  out  Porter's 
argument. 

Men  would  be  sent  out  and  in  a  few  months  they 
were  back.  The  past  was  their  scourge.  They  could 
not  escape  its  lash.  And  just  a  few  weeks  after  we 
had  talked  about  the  thing — a  few  weeks  after  I  had 
told  him  of  Sally — Foley  the  Goat  and  the  sinister 
tragedy  that  followed  him  threw  us  all  into  a  hot 
fury  of  resentment  and  rage. 

Foley's  misfortune  made  a  tremendous  impression 
on  Porter.  The  incident  was  directly  responsible 
for  the  breakup  of  the  Recluse  Club. 

After  Porter  was  transferred  to  the  steward's  of- 
fice, three  weeks  passed  and  he  had  not  come  to  one 
of  our  Sunday  dinners.  His  absense  was  as  depres- 
sing as  a  cold  rain  on  a  May  Day  fete.  The  club 
was  lifeless  without  him.  Even  Billy  Raidler's  bub- 
bhng  raillery  simmered  down. 

Old  man  Camot  grew  more  querrulous  when  his 
napkin  was  carelessly  folded  and  Louisa  could  not 
argue  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  Creation.  When 
he  started  in  to  divide  Infinity  there  was  no  one  to 
oppose  him. 

I  took  Bill's  absence  as  a  personal  insult.  I  felt 
that  a  friend  had  forgotten  me. 


210    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

We  were  sitting  at  the  table  on  the  fourth  Sunday. 
We  had  a  wretched  meal.  No  one  had  been  able  to 
bring  in  the  bacon. 

I  usually  procured  the  roast.  I  would  take  over 
about  two  dollars  in  stamps  to  the  guard  at  the  com- 
missary and  this  State  official  would  open  the  door 
and  allow  me  to  take  all  that  I  could  carry. 

A  new  guard  had  come  in.  I  was  afraid  to  try 
the  old  tactics  on  him.  Louisa  had  been  equally  un- 
fortunate. We  had  nothing  but  some  leftover  pota- 
toes, some  canned  string  beans  and  stale  doughnuts 
for  the  weekly  feast. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Bill?"  old  Carnot  complained. 
**Has  the  man's  promotion  inflated  his  self-esteem? 
By  Jove,  does  he  not  realize  that  the  name  Carnot 
is  one  of  the  proudest  in  New  Orleans!"  He  was 
sputtering  and  fuming. 

"Mr.  Carnot,  a  name  may  be  your  pass-key  to  the 
domains  of  the  ehte,"  I  tried  to  taunt  him.  "But 
Bill  Porter  has  an  inner  circle  of  his  own.  He 
doesn't  care  what  your  credentials  are!" 

I  went  over  to  the  window  and  looked  across  the 
prison  campus,  hoping  that  Bill  might  be  coming 
along.  I  was  about  to  give  up  when  I  saw  his  portly 
figure  swinging  hurriedly  but  with  calm  dignity  down 
the  alley. 

"Fellow  comrades — the  prodigal  returns  and  he 
brings  the  fatted  calf  with  him,"  Porter's  full  gray 
eyes  gleamed,  and  he  began  to  empty  his  pockets.  A 
small  dray  could  not  have  carried  much  more.  There 
were  French  sardines,  deviled  ham,  green  peas, 
canned  chicken,  jellies  and  all  manner  of  delicacies. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  211 

We  looked  on  as  Lazarus  might  have  when  an 
extra  fat  crumb  fell  from  Dives'  table. 

It  was  a  joyous  reunion.  It  was  the  last  meeting 
of  the  Recluse  Club.  A  bitter  feud  grew  up  between 
its  members.  The  case  of  Foley  the  Goat  and  Por- 
ter's indignant  sympathy  brought  to  its  end  the  one 
pleasant  feature  of  our  prison  Hfe. 

There  are  some  men  who  are  conquered  only  by 
death.  They  will  not  yield  even  though  hfe  is  the 
penalty  for  rebellion.  Men  of  this  type  can  no  more 
survive  in  prison  than  a  free-thinking  private  can  in 
the  army. 

They  do  not  fit  in  with  the  crushing  disciphne  of 
penitentiary  Hfe.  They  are  marked  for  a  quick  fin- 
ish the  moment  their  heads  are  shaved  and  their 
chests  hung  with  a  number.  The  man  who  will  not 
bend  is  broken.  It  is  the  inevitable  law  of  prison 
hfe. 

The  prison  guard  will  not  endure  defiance.  It 
whips  the  beast  in  him  to  a  frenzy.  In  the  Ohio  pen 
they  had  a  way  of  eliminating  the  unruly.  The  trip- 
hammer at  bolt  contract  was  their  neat  manner  of 
execution. 

Foley  the  Goat  was  one  of  these  incorrigibles. 
He  was  more  hateful  to  the  guards  than  leprosy. 
They  sent  him  to  the  trip-hammer.  The  man  con- 
signed to  that  labor  is  doomed.  There  is  no  reprieve 
for  him.  He  cannot  endure  the  terrific  grind  more 
than  three  or  four  months — then  he  is  carted  to  the 
hospital  to  rack  out  a  few  breaths  before  going  to 
the  trough. 

Death  was  a  'mighty-severe  sentence  for  Foley. 


212         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

His  capital  sin  was  his  fearless  independence.  He 
would  fling  back  an  angry  retort  to  a  guard  even 
though  he  knew  that  the  flesh  would  be  stripped 
from  his  back  in  payment.  He  was  consistent  in  his 
defiance.  No  one  ever  heard  the  Goat  send  up  a  yell 
from  the  basement.  It  gave  him  an  odd  reputation 
in  the  pen.  To  the  other  prisoners  he  seemed  a  man 
protected  by  a  sort  of  witchcraft. 

"He  is  possessed  of  the  devil,"  they  would  whis- 
per in  awed  admiration.  "It  ain't  in  flesh  and  blood 
to  stand  it.  He's  thrown  a  spell  about  himself.  He 
don't  feel!" 

"Sure,  he's  in  cohoots  with  the  Old  Fellow,"  an- 
other would  volunteer.  "He  had  ghosts  rifling  the 
purses  of  Columbus  for  him  after  he  cleaned  out  all 
the  pockets  in  Cincinnati." 

The  superstitious  believed  it,  and  if  ever  there  was 
a  man  about  whom  the  mantle  of  mystery  draped  it- 
self with  a  natural  grace  it  was  Foley  the  Goat.  He 
was  almost  unbelievably  lean-  and  hollow-looking 
and  his  eye  w^as  the  most  compelling  and  fiery  thing 
I  had  ever  looked  upon. 

I  never  will  forget  the  quivering  throb  of  interest 
that  caught  me  the  first  time  I  saw  that  smoldering 
red-brown  eye  flaming  out  its  defi'  at  the  prison 
guard. 

I  had  stopped  to  give  an  order  from  the  warden. 
A  tall,  angular,  unsubstantial  fellow  came  with  nerv- 
ous swiftness  toward  us.  He  moved  with  such  ra- 
pidity he  seemed  to  be  winging  across  the  grass.  The 
breath  of  an  instant  that  hurried  figure  paused  in  its 
ardent  walk  and  the  man  lashed  upon  the  guard  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  213 

burning  light  of  his  scornful  eye.  It  was  uncanny. 
It  went  over  the  guard  like  a  malignant  curse. 

"Damn'  Beanpole!"  The  guard  set  his  teeth. 
"He'll  get  his — damn  his  bewitched  eye!" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Who?  Devil  take  him — the  Goat,  of  course.  He 
murders  men  with  his  looks.  Who  else  would  dare 
do  it?  He's  got  about  three  months  more  to  live, 
damn  him !" 

Foley  was  the  master  pickpocket  of  Ohio.  His 
nimble  fingers,  with  their  ghostly  lightness,  had  gath- 
ered a  fortune.  A  mean  and  paltry  profession  it 
seemed  to  me  until  I  talked  about  it  to  Foley.  He 
had  as  much  pride  in  his  "gift"  as  a  musician,  or  a 
poet,  or  a  train-robber  has  in  his.  But  Foley's  art 
was  not  in  the  accepted  curriculum.  He  was  sent  up 
for  two  years. 

They  had  been  two  years  of  relentless  pimishment 
for  Foley.  He  was  early  initiated  into  the  horrors 
of  the  basement.  The  man  was  neither  desperate 
nor  vicious  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  cringe  when 
a  guard  demanded  groveling  obedience.  Foley  was 
an  indomitable,  angry  sort.  He  could  not  be  subdued 
and  so  he  was  all  but  murdered.  He  came  into  the 
pen  weighing  200  pounds.  When  I  saw  him  he  car- 
ried but  142  pounds  on  his  six-foot  frame. 

He  had  been  two  months  at  the  trip-hammer  when 
his  term  expired.  In  the  bolt  contracts  this  massive 
instrument  was  operated  by  man  power.  It  was  a 
cruel  and  driving  job.  For  60  days  his  arms  and 
legs  had  been  in  almost  perpetual  motion.  The  big 
hammers  were  pedaled  by  the  feet,  small  ones  by  the 


214    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

hand.  Sixty  days  had  finished  the  wreck  of  Foley's 
constitution. 

The  end  of  his  term  saved  him  from  death. 

He  was  but  a  shadow  when  he  came  into  the  war- 
den's office  for  his  discharge.  "I'm  finished  with  the 
game,"  there  w^as  no  surrender  in  his  intrepid  red- 
brown  eyes,  though  his  voice  was  but  a  hoarse,  shock- 
ing whisper  and  his  hands  were  transparent. 

"I'm  done  in,"  he  said  without  a  trace  of  self-pity 
or  regret.  "I'm  going  to  wind  it  up  peacefully  on  the 
hill  where  I  was  born.  I've  got  a  few  thousand. 
That'll  pay  for  a  funeral.  I've  had  28  years  on  this 
planet — that's  enough.  I'm  satisfied — my  last 
breath  will  be  a  free  one!" 

Foley  reckoned  without  Cal  Grim.  He  reckoned 
without  the  boycott.  He  forgot  that  he  was  ligiti- 
mate  prey  to  be  hunted  down  as  soon  as  his  release 
became  knowTi. 

And  so  he  went  about  his  home  city  as  though  he 
were  in  truth  a  free  man.  At  the  corner  of  Fifth 
and  Vine  streets  he  discovered  his  mistake. 

Foley  stood  there  one  night,  aimless  enough  to  be 
sure.  It  was  but  a  week  or  so  after  his  discharge. 
The  ex-con  was  waiting  for  a  little  old  lady.  He 
was  going  to  take  her  to  a  vaudeville  show. 

The  little  old  creature  was  his  aunt.  She  had 
raised  him.  When  he  came  out  from  the  pen  she 
took  him  back  to  the  little  house  where  he  was  born. 
Tonight  they  were  going  on  a  glorious  lark.  She 
would  be  coming  along  in  a  few  moments.  So  Foley 
waited. 

A  man  saw  him  standing  there.    He  watched  and 


WITH  O.  HENRY  215 

after  a  while  he  slouched  up  from  behind  and  caught 
Foley  by  the  arm. 

"Hello,  Goat,  when  did  you  get  back?"  Cal  Crim, 
a  big  rough-neck  bull  in  the  Cincinnati  department, 
leered  at  Foley. 

"Hello,  Cal,"  Foley  was  not  suspicious.  He  had 
kept  his  resolution.  He  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the 
need  to  steal.    "I  got  back  last  week." 

"Been  to  headquarters  yet?"  Crim  tightened  his 
clutch  on  Foley's  skeleton  arm. 

"Not  much.    I'm  through.    I've  given  up  the  old 

game." 

"Don't  rib  me,  you  damn'  thief.  I  am  a  wise  guy, 
I  am.  Get  along,  you  sneak,"  he  had  Foley  by  the 
neck  and  w^as  pushing  him  forward.  "I'll  take  you 
to  headquarters?" 

The  Goat  knew  what  that  meant.  He  wouldn't 
have  a  chance  at  that  last  free  breath.  Once  at 
headquarters  and  conviction  was  certain. 

"Let  go,  you  skunk,  Crim,  or  I'll  kill  you  I"  Foley 
wrenched  himself  free  and  turned  on  the  cop.  *'Don't 
bully  me,  Crim.  You  got  nothin'  on  me.  Drop  your 
damn'  hands  or  I'll  finish  you." 

Crim  was  a  hulking  giant.    He  swept  out  his  club. 

*'Walk  along,  you  thief,  or  I'll  bring  this  down 
on  your  lying  head!" 

Foley  squirmed.  There  was  a  crack,  a  thud  and 
a  livid  welt  with  the  blood  bursting  through  stood  out 
on  Foley's  cheek.  Crim  yanked  him  to  his  feet, 
Foley's  terrible  eyes  glared  at  him.  His  lightning 
fingers  went  to  his  pockets.  An  old  .44  bulldog 
pistol  went  against  the  bull's  stomach.     Five  shots 


216         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

and  the  fellow  crumpled  into  a  nerveless  heap  at 
Foley's  feet. 

There  was  no  vaudeville  that  night  for  Foley  the 
Goat  and  his  little  old  aunt.  He  was  nailed.  They 
rustled  him  off  to  jail  and  booked  him  with  "Assault 
with  attempt  to  kill." 

I  don't  know  where  the  five  shots  went,  but  Cal 
Crim  didn't  die.  I've  hated  a  bulldog  pistol  ever 
since.  At  the  hospital  he  came  to  and  began  scream- 
ing in  a  horrible  frenzy — ^'There's  Foley^ — that 
shadow — catch  it — out  with  your  club,  quick — the 
damn'  skeleton,  he's  so  thin  there's  nothing  left  to 
beat." 

No  need  to  nail  Foley.  He  was  finished.  He  had 
gone  out  from  the  pen  shrunken  to  bones — nothing 
but  a  hoarse  choking  cough.  The  cowardly  blow 
that  came  smashing  down  on  his  face,  knocking  his 
rickety  body  to  the  ground,  took  out  his  last  ounce  of 
fight.  The  longest  term  the  court  could  give  Foley 
would  be  a  light  sentence. 

When  the  news  hit  the  pen  that  Foley  was  up  for 
another  jolt,  hot  suppressed  anger,  a  thousand  times 
more  resentful  because  it  had  no  outlet — the  futile 
champing  fury  of  chained  beasts — went  in  a  mutter- 
ing bitterness  from  shop  to  shop. 

Each  convict  saw  in  Foley  an  image  of  himself • 
His  fate  represented  their  future.  They  looked  upon 
this  fighting,  unruly  fellow  as  the  devoted  venerate, 
a  martyr. 

Men,  who  longed  to  "sass"  the  guards  but  lacked 
the  nerve  felt  that  Foley's  reckless  temerity  redeemed 
their  independence.     He  did  what  they  dared  only 


WITH  O.  HENRY  217 

to  imagine.     Sometimes  I  would  hear  the  men  re- 
peating one-sided  insults  from  the  guards. 

"Damn'  scoundrels — just  wait  till  I  get  out  of  here. 
The  bloodhounds,  they'll  whimper  to  my  lash  I" 

Such  dreams  of  vengeance  as  they  cherished.  How 
they  would  get  even  for  all  the  raw  indignities  they 
had  suffered !  Like  dogs  they  had  fawned  under  the 
scourge.  Some  day  they  would  be  free!  Foley's 
doom  chilled  the  hope  in  every  heart. 

We  took  up  a  collection  for  the  Goat.  Not  many 
of  us  had  any  spending  money.  Billy  Raidler  and  I 
contributed  50  cents  each  in  stamps.  This  was  a 
small  fortune  in  the  prison.  Except  for  men  whose 
families  kept  them  supplied,  like  Old  Carnot  and 
Louisa,  very  few  of  the  prisoners  had  more  than  a 
few  bits  at  a  time. 

Some  gave  a  nickel,  others  a  dime  and  some  a 
penny.  Every  cent  meant  a  sacrifice.  Men  went 
without  pie  or  coffee  at  night  to  get  their  names 
down  on  Foley's  subscription  list. 

Billy  and  I  brought  the  paper  over  to  Old  Man 
Carnot.  We  expected  a  handsome  donation  from 
him — a  dollar  perhaps. 

"My  word,  Billy,  what  nonsense  is  this!"  The 
fringe  of  hair  stuck  out  like  a  double  row  of  red  pins 
around  his  fat  face  and  his  pursy  lips  sputtered  a 
shower  at  us.  "Why,  Foley  is  a  common  pickpocket! 
He  should  be  in  jail.  It  is  most  arrant  foolishness 
to  send  a  donation  to  the  poor- white  trash!" 

"You  white-Uvered  old  reprobate,  if  I  had  five 
fingers  I'd  tear  the  guts  out  of  you!" 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  Billy  angry. 


218    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

His  long,  slender  body  trembled;  his  face  seemed 
suddenly  blotched  with  rage  and  he  leaned  against 
me  heavily. 

"Damn  you,  Carnot,  you  better  thank  heaven  I 
can't  spring  at  you.  If  I  could  stand  alone,  you'd 
hit  the  hay  and  never  wake  up!" 

"Is  he  serious,  Mr.  Jennings?"  The  old  fool  moved 
back  in  shocked  astonishment.  "Does  he  really  wish 
the  release  of  this  villainous  pickpocket?" 

"Carnot,  you're  a  lying  hypocrite.  We've  got  your 
number,  all  of  us.  You're  a  rotten  embezzler  and 
you  stole  $2,000,000.  You're  a  blackguard  and  ev- 
ery cent  you  own  is  filthy  with  the  tears  and  blood  of 
white  trash.  You're  a  damn'  skunk  and  we  wouldn't 
let  you  give  a  cent  to  a  real  manl" 

If  Foley  could  have  seen  Carnot's  distorted  face  he 
would  have  been  compensated  for  the  loss  of  the 
dollar.  We  went  to  Louisa.  He  was  busy  ^vriting 
out  specifications  in  the  contract  shop. 

"I'm  too  busy — it  doesn't  interest  me!" 

That  ended  it.  We  didn't  give  Louisa  another 
chance.  Neither  of  us  was  in  the  mood  for  explana- 
tions. 

"Put  me  down  for  a  dollar!  I'll  raise  my  sub- 
scription. I've  struck  it  rich." 

We  were  in  the  post-office  that  evening.  Billy's 
income  had  suddenly  jumped.  It  was  an  unstable 
account.  He  kept  the  nail  on  his  index  finger  long 
and  sharp.  He  would  whiffle  it  under  the  edge  of 
uncancelled  stamps  that  came  on  the  mail  to  the 
post-office.  Sometimes  the  revenue  went  to  $5  or  $6 
a  month. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  219 

The  officials  knew  of  all  these  practices  of  ours. 
They  knew  of  the  existence  of  the  club,  they  knew  of 
the  little  thefts  whereby  men  gained  enough  to  buy 
tobacco  or  candy.  But  they  made  no  effort  to  remedy 
conditions.    It  would  have  been  futile. 

The  evils  were  inherent  in  a  system  that  compelled 
men  to  live  starved  and  abnormal  lives.  There  were 
so  many  graver  crimes  committed  even  by  the  offi- 
cials themselves  in  order  that  the  prison  system  be 
maintained . 

Billy  had  neatly  folded  off  seven  stamps — one  of 
them  was  worth  10  cents. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  an  ugly  red  sinner  as  old 
Camot?  I'd  rather  be  lackey  to  a  nigger  than  God 
to  such  a  sputtering  lobster.  I'd  be  glad  to  roast  in 
hell  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  fat  self-satisfied 
hide  on  the  grid." 

"Hot  satisfaction,  indeed!"  The  door  was  shoved 
gently  open  and  Porter's  understanding  eyes  went 
in  amusement  over  Billy's  excited  face. 

"Wlio's  damned  now?"  Profanity  was  not  one  of 
Porter's  weaknesses.  "It  is  a  good  vent  for  the  ig- 
norant. It  is  but  a  cheap  outlet,"  he  would  rail  at 
me  wKen  Billy  and  I  would  volley  out  a  hot  shot  of 
"damns"  and  "by  Gods." 

"What  joint  is  now  out  of  socket  in  this  Paradise 
of  the  Lost?" 

We  told  him  about  the  subscription  for  Foley  the 
Goat  and  the  refusal  of  Carnot  and  Louisa  to  sub- 
scribe. 

"Pusillanimous,  penurious  pickpockets  that  they 
are — dastardly  defaulters,  who  would  expect  largesse 


220         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

from  them?  It  but  increases  my  respect  for  bankers 
of  your  type,  colonel." 

Porter  gave  a  dollar  to  the  fund.  He  had  sold 
some  story — I  do  not  remember  the  name,  but  I 
think  it  was  "Christmas  by  Injunction." 

"I  would  have  expected  better  of  Louisa."  Porter 
had  a  deep  affection  for  the  clever,  brilliant  thinker. 
*'I  do  not  wish  to  see  either  of  them  again.  This  re- 
fusal to  help  Foley  is  too  shoddy." 

Money  never  meant  anything  to  Porter — when  he 
had  it  he  spent  it  freely.  He  placed  no  value  on  it 
except  the  power  it  gave  him  to  gratify  the  thousand 
odd  impulses  that  were  the  very  life  of  him. 

When  Louisa  heard  of  Porter's  indignation,  he 
sent  him  a  detailed  explanation.  There  were  at  least 
15  typewritten  pages. 

*T  have  another  newspaper  from  Lizzie."  He 
showed  us  the  bulky  manuscript.  Louisa  and  Porter 
were  given  to  correspondence.  The  ex-banker's  let- 
ters were  masterpieces.  He  discussed  philosophy, 
science  and  art  in  a  way  that  filled  Porter  with  de- 
light. 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  read  it  all,  but  he  says  he 
dia  not  think.  He  did  not  give  the  matter  of  Foley 
a  second  thought.  That's  the  trouble  with  the  world 
— it  doesn't  think.  But  the  fellow  who  is  starving 
or  trampled  on  is  compelled  to  think.  If  men  would 
investigate  the  claims  of  others  and  their  justice,  the 
human  heart  would  beat  with  a  kinder  throb." 

We  did  not  go  over  to  the  club  that  Sunday. 
Louisa  was  broken-hearted.  Old  man  Carnot  raged 
and    fumed.     None  of  us  ever  bothered  with    him 


WITH  O.  HENRY  221 

again.  The  happy  association  was  ended.  With  its 
break,  a  deeper  friendship  between  Porter  and  my- 
self was  cemented. 

We  got  up  $25  for  Foley.  I  wrote  a  letter  of  ap- 
preciation extolling  his  valorous  deed  in  attacking 
the  cop.  Porter  leaned  over  my  shoulder.  "Be  not 
so  exuberant  in  your  praise,  colonel.  They  may  come 
in  here  and  get  us  and  hold  us  'particeps  criminis 
after  the  act.'  I  should  not  like  to  be  branded  as  a 
murderer  and  compelled  to  remain  longer  even  in 
the  company  of  such  choice  spirits  as  Billy  and  your- 
self." 

"You're  not  exactly  in  your  element  here,  are  you, 
Bill?" 

"As  much  at  home  and  as  comfortable  as  a  fly  in  a 
spider's  embrace." 

"Do  you  think  that  society  is  any  better  off  be- 
cause a  few  thousand  men  are  put  behind  bars?" 

"If  we  could  select  the  right  'few  thousand,'  society 
would  benefit.  If  we  could  put  in  the  real  scoun- 
drels, I  w^ould  favor  prisons.  But  we  don't.  The 
men  who  kill  in  legions  and  who  steal  in  seven  figures 
are  too  magnificent  in  their  criminality  to  come  under 
the  paltry  observance  of  law  and  order.  But  fellows 
like  you — well,  you  deserved  it  all  right." 

Porter  turned  the  argument  off  with  a  laugh.  He 
was  a  good  bit  of  a  standpatter  even  after  two  years 
and  three-quarters  in  the  pen.  He  did  not  like  to 
discuss  prison  affairs.  His  apathy  nettled  me  so 
much  that  I  could  never  overlook  an  opportunity  to 
goad  him. 

"Money  and  Hves  are  wasted.  Just  consider  the  en- 


222         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

ergies  that  go  to  the  devil  in  here.  Under  a  better 
plan,  prisoners  could  be  punished  without  being 
damned." 

"Colonel,  you're  fantastic.  What  sort  of  a  fourth 
dimension  jail  would  you  suggest?" 

"I  would  not  throw  men  in  a  hog  pen  and  expect 
them  to  come  out  cleaner  than  they  went  in.  Xo 
state  is  rich  enough  to  maintain  a  breeding  place  for 
crime  and  degeneracy.  That's  what  a  modern  pri- 
son is. 

"Men  are  cut  off  from  their  families;  they  are 
thrown  into  shameful  and  degrading  cells,  where  the 
sanitary  conditions  would  disgust  a  self-respecting 
pig;  they  are  compelled  to  fawn  to  bullying  guards — 
no  wonder  they  come  out  more  like  animals  than  men. 
They  are  cut  off  from  every  decency  and  refinement 
of  life  and  are  expected  to  come  back  reformed." 

"The  world  is  very  illogical,"  Porter  tilted  back 
on  the  high  stool  in  the  post-office,  reached  up  to  the 
desk  for  a  magazine  and  started  to  read. 

"When  you  get  out  you  can  bring  the  matter  be- 
fore the  public.  With  your  gift,  you  can  do  w^onders 
to  break  down  the  system." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

It  w^as  Bill's  touchy  spot.  He  snapped  forward 
on  the  stool,  dropping  the  magazine  on  the  table. 

"I  shall  never  mention  the  name  of  prison.  I  shall 
never  speak  of  crime  and  pimishments.  I  tell  you 
I  will  not  attempt  to  bring  a  remedy  to  the  diseased 
soul  of  society.  I  will  forget  that  I  ever  breathed 
behind  these  walls." 

I  could  not  understand  Porter  on  this  score.     I 


WITH  O.  HENRY  223 

knew  that  he  was  neither  cold  nor  selfish,  yet  he  seemed 
almost  stoically  unconcerned  about  the  horrors  that 
went  on  in  prison.  He  could  never  bear  to  hear  an 
allusion  to  Ira  Maralatt.  He  did  not  want  to  meet 
Sally  and  he  refused  almost  with  violence  to  come 
into  the  chapel  to  hear  her  sing.  Yet  when  the  per- 
secution of  Foley  ended  in  a  sordid  tragedy,  he  was 
swept  into  a  scornful  fury  for  the  whole  infamous 
system  responsible  for  the  rank  outrage.  It  was  a 
mystery  to  me. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

O.   Henry's   rage    against  corruption;    zeal  yields   to   prudence;    a   draft 
of  the  grafter's  vr'inc. 

"You're  right.  Prisons  are  a  joke,  but  the  grim 
laugh  is  on  the  fellow  who  gets  caught."  Bill  Porter 
had  pushed  the  door  of  the  post-office  open.  No  greet- 
ing; no  amiable  raillery;  no  droll  quips.  Abruptness 
was  a  new  mood  even  with  this  whimsical  chameleon. 

*'I'm  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss.  I'm  going  to  jump 
over." 

I  looked  at  him,  amazed  at  the  astounding  confes- 
sion. Something  unusually  shocking  and  sinister 
must  have  happened  to  throw  Bill  Porter's  reticent, 
proud  self-possession  into  open  despondency.  His 
face  w^as  drawn  and  worried,  the  usually  quiet,  ap- 
praising gray  eyes  were  shot  through  with  nervous 
anger  and  for  once  the  silky  yellow  hair  was  frayed 
down  over  his  forehead. 

"Caged  beasts  are  free  compared  to  us.  They 
aren't  satisfied  to  stunt  our  bodies — they  damn  our 
souls.    I'm  going  to  get  out." 

Porter  let  himself  slump  down  on  the  straightback 
chair  and  sat  regarding  me  in  silence. 

"Al,  I  ran  into  a  mess  today  so  foul  a  leper  would 
fight  shy  of  it.  And  they  want  me  to  stick  my  hands 
into  it!    You  were  right.     The  crimes  that  men  are 


WITH  O.  HENRY  225 

paying  for  behind  these  walls  are  mere  foibles  com- 
pared to  the  monstrous  corruption  of  the  free  men  on 
the  outside. 

"Why,  they  walk  into  the  State  treasury  and  fill 
their  pockets  with  the  people's  gold  and  walk  out 
again  and  no  one  even  mentions  a  word  of  the  theft. 
And  I'm  supposed  to  put  my  signature  to  the  in- 
famous steal!  Colonel,  they'd  make  you  look  like  a 
pickpocket — the  colossal  thievery  they're  going  to 
put  over!" 

"Whose  dopin'  out  the  medicine,  Bill?  When  do 
they  tackle  the  job?  I  might  hold  the  horses,  you 
know,  and  collect  my  divvy."  Porter  tossed  his  head 
in  irritable  impatience.  "This  is  tragic.  Don't  be 
the  jester  at  a  funeral.  You  know  that  requisition 
for  meat  and  beans  you  sent  over?  Do  you  know 
what  happened  and  what  is  about  to  happen?" 

I  had  a  pretty  good  idea.  I  had  been  "wised  up" 
to  the  practice.  As  secretary  to  the  warden  I  gave 
the  order  for  aU  purchases  required  in  the  peniten- 
tiary. If  the  State  shop  wanted  wool,  or  the  bolt  con- 
tract needed  steel  or  the  butcher  shop  meat,  the  lists 
were  sent  into  the  warden's  office.  I  sent  the  requisi- 
tions to  the  steward  and  Bill  Porter,  as  his  secre- 
tary, was  supposed  to  let  out  the  bids.  The  mer- 
chant on  the  outside  would  then  contract  to  keep  us 
suppHed  for  a  specified  length  of  time. 

There  were  certain  big  business  men  who  solicited 
the  prison  trade.  When  the  bids  were  called  for, 
these  men  would  send  in  prices  far  in  excess  of  the 
market  values.  The  bids  were,  of  course,  supposed 
to  be  secret  and  the  lowest  man  was  presumably 


226    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

given  the  deal.  In  practice,  however,  the  letting  of 
the  bids  was  an  empty  formality. 

The  state  and  prison  officials  had  friends.  The 
bids  would  be  opened  and  if  the  friend  had  not 
guessed  right,  he  would  be  tipped  off  and  allowed  to 
submit  another  bid  just  a  fraction  less  than  the  low- 
est. He  would  then  send  to  the  pen  the  most  inferior 
products,  charging  an  incredibly  exorbitant  price. 

The  State  paid  enough  to  run  the  prison  as  a  first- 
class  hotel.  The  food  it  received  was  so  wretched  it 
broke  down  the  health  and  ruined  the  digestion  of 
the  most  robust.  It  was  the  same  with  every  other 
commodity  purchased  for  prison  use. 

*'Do  you  know  what  happened?"  Porter  repeated. 
There  was  a  grating  harshness  in  the  low  voice. 
"The  bids  came  in  today.  The  prices  were  outra- 
geous. I  had  made  a  study  of  the  market  values.  I 
wished  to  refer  the  bids  back  to  the  contractors  and 
demand  a  fair  rate.    The  suggestion  was  ignored. 

"That  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  The  contract  was 
not  given  to  the  lowest  bidder,  but  to  another.  He 
was  informed  of  his  competitor's  figure  and  allowed 
to  underbid  it  by  one  cent.  It  means  that  the  tax- 
payers of  this  community  are  deliberately  robbed  of 
thousands  and  thousands  of  dollars  on  this  one  con- 
tract alone.  And  a  convict  who  is  here  on  a  charge  of 
taking  a  paltry  $5,000,  not  one  cent  of  which  he  ever 
got,  must  be  a  party  to  the  scandal." 

"You  know  of  these  things,  Al?"  It  seemed  to 
prick  Porter  that  I  was  not  greatly  impressed. 

"Sure,  Bill.  Here,  take  a  gulp  for  your  misery." 
I  poured  him  a  glass  of  fine  old  burgundy.    "Pretty 


WITH  O.  HENRY  227 

good,  isn't  it?  It  came  from  the  fellow  who  got  the 
last  bean  contract.  My  predecessor  left  it  here  for 
me.  Like  as  not  we'll  be  in  line  now  for  all  manner 
of  presents  from  the  thieves  whose  pm^ses  we  help 
to  line." 

Porter  pushed  the  wine  from  him.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say,  Al,  that  you  will  wink  at  such  outrageous 
crime?  Why,  the  convicts  doing  life  here  are  stain- 
less compared  to  these  highwaymen." 

*'Bill,  you're  up  against  it.  You  might  as  well  be 
graceful  about  it.  It  would  be  easier  for  you  to  tear 
down  these  stone  walls  with  your  naked  hand  than 
to  overthrow  the  iron  masonry  of  poHtical  corrup- 
tion. What  can  your  protest  accomplish?  The  sys- 
tem of  legitimate  stealing  from  the  government  was 
here  long  before  we  arrived.  It  will  survive  our 
puny  opposition.*' 

*'I  should  prefer  then  to  leave  the  steward's  office. 
I  shall  hand  in  my  resignation  tomorrow."  Porter 
got  up  to  leave.  He  was  just  rash  and  impulsive 
enough  to  do  the  mad  thing.  I  knew  where  he  would 
end  if  he  did.  I  didn't  like  the  vision  of  the  well- 
groomed  and  immaculate  Bill  heaped  into  a  loath- 
some cell  in  solitary.  Still  less  did  I  hke  the  thought 
of  him  strapped  over  the  trough  and  beaten  to  in- 
sensibility. 

"Sit  down,  Bill,  you  damn'  fool,  and  listen  to  rea- 
son." I  caught  his  arm  and  pulled  him  back.  "The 
government  knows  these  criminals  are  at  large.  It 
likes  them.  It  gives  them  wealth  and  homage. 
They're  the  big  fellows  of  the  State.  They  speak  at 
all  public  meetings.     They're  the  pillars  of  society." 


228    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Porter  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  repulsion. 

*'What  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?"  I  asked. 

''I  shall  go  to  the  officials  of  this  institution.  I 
will  tell  them  I  am  not  a  thief,  though  I  am  a  convict. 
I  w411  defy  them  to  sign  up  these  infamous  contracts. 
I  will  tell  them  to  get  another  secretary." 

*'And  the  next  day  you  will  find  yourself  back  in  a 
mean  little  cell  and  in  a  week  or  so  you'll  be  in  solitary 
on  a  trumped  up  charge.  And  then  you'll  be  torn 
up  like  Ira  Maralatt.  That's  just  about  what  your 
foolhardy  honor  will  bring  you." 

A  shadow  went  like  a  dark  red  scale  over  Bill's 
handsome  face.     He  drew  in  his  lips  in  disgust. 

"By  God,  that  would  finish  me." 

He  stood  up,  the  panther  in  him  ready  to  spring, 
just  as  it  had  leaped  once  before  at  the  throat  of  the 
Spanish  don.  He  flung  out  his  hands  as  though  he 
had  suddenly  found  himself  covered  with  odious 
welts  from  a  guard's  blows.  "I'd  wring  their  damn 
necks  dry.    Let  anyone  use  me  so!" 

"You're  nobody  in  particular  except  to  yourself. 
You  might  as  well  look  out  for  that  self.  Your 
whole  future  is  absolutely  ruined  if  you  protest.  The 
men  you  would  balk  are  the  biggest  bugs  in  the 
country.     They'd  grind  you  right  down  to  the  dirt.'* 

Porter  sat  there  as  though  a  sudden  chill  silence 
had  frozen  speech  in  him  forever.  The  nine  o'clock 
gong  sounded.  It  was  the  signal  for  lights  out.  He 
started  nervously  toward  the  door  and  then  came 
back,  laughing  bitterly. 

"I  thought  I  would  get  locked  out.  But  I  have 
a  midnight  key  to  the  steward's  office." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  229 

"Locked  out?  No  such  luck,  Bill,  we're  just 
locked  in." 

He  nodded.  "Body  and  soul."  He  took  up  the 
glass  of  the  grafter's  wine,  held  it  a  moment  to  the 
light  and  v/ith  one  gulp  tossed  it  off. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  struggle.  The  pulsing,  clam- 
orous silence  that  holds  the  tongue  while  thoughts 
shout  from  mind  to  mind  was  between  us.  Porter 
seemed  exhausted  by  the  defeat.  The  joy  in  his  pro- 
motion was  dissipated.  He  became  more  aloof  than 
ever. 

"What  a  terrible  isolation  there  is  in  the  prison 
life,"  he  said  after  a  pause  that  weighed  like  a  stone 
upon  us.  "We  are  forgotten  by  the  friends  we  left 
in  the  world  and  we  are  used  by  the  friends  we  claim 
here." 

I  knew  that  Porter  had  a  wife  and  child.  I  did 
not  know  then  that  he  had  reached  his  home  after  our 
separation  in  Texas  to  find  his  wife  dying.  Nor  did 
I  know  that  the  $3,000  had  given  him  a  measure  of 
independence  in  those  last  sad  months  before  his  trial 
and  conviction. 

In  all  our  intimacy  at  prison.  Porter  never  once  al- 
luded to  his  family  affairs.  Not  once  did  he  speak  of 
the  child  who  was  ever  in  his  thoughts.  Billy  and  I 
sent  out  innumerable  letters  to  little  Margaret.  Only 
once  did  Porter  slip  a  word.  It  was  that  time  when 
a  story  had  been  refused.  He  was  disappointed,  he 
said,  for  he  had  wanted  to  send  a  present  to  a  little 
friend. 

"We  may  not  be  forgotten  by  the  folks  on  the  out- 
side," I  offered. 


230         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"Forgotten  or  despised,  what  difference  does  it 
make?  I  left  many  there.  They  were  powerful. 
They  could  have  won  a  pardon  for  me."  He  looked 
at  me  with  troubled  suspense.  **A1,  do  you  think  I 
am  guilty?" 

"No.  Bill,  I'd  bank  on  you  any  day." 

"Thanks.  I've  got  one  friend  anyway.  I'm  glad 
they  let  me  alone.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  indebted  to 
anyone.  I  am  the  master  of  my  own  fate.  If  I 
bungled  my  course  and  got  myself  here,  then  all 
right.  TVTien  I  get  out  I  will  be  under  an  obHgation 
to  none." 

Many  of  those  friends  would  today  hold  it  their 
highest  honor  to  have  aided  O.  Henry  when  he  was 
just  Bill  Porter  the  convict.  If  anyone  ever  inter- 
ested himself  in  Bill,  he  did  not  seem  to  know  any- 
thing of  it. 

"I  haven't  much  longer  to  stay  here,  colonel — how 
many  contracts  do  you  suppose  there'll  be  to  give 
out?" 

"Oh,  quite  a  few.    Why?" 

"There  might  be  some  way  of  escape  for  us." 

"Yes,  your  way  out  is  to  feather  your  own  nest 
and  keep  your  trap  shut.     Take  another  swig." 

After  that  there  were  many  glasses  of  wine — many 
fingers  of  whiskey — many  long  conversations  after 
the  nine  o'clock  lights  were  out.  Porter  gave  in,  van- 
quished, but  the  surrender  nagged  at  him  like  an 
ugly  worm  biting  incessantly  at  his  heart.  He  tried 
to  keep  the  bids  secret ;  he  fought  to  give  the  contract 
to  the  lowest  man.  He  would  be  asked  to  show  the 
bids.     He  was  a  mere  piece  of  furniture    in    the 


WITH  O.  HEXRY  231 

office.     He  had  to  do  as  he  was  told  and  without 
question. 

"The  dirty  scoundrels,"  he  would  say  to  me. 

"Pay  no  attention  to  it,"  I  would  advise.  "Hon- 
esty is  not  the  best  policy  in  prison.  Don't  let  it 
worry  you." 

"Of  course  I  will  not  worry  over  it.  .We  are  noth- 
ing but  slaves  to  their  roguery." 

Even  so,  Porter  and  I  had  tremendous  power  in 
letting  out  the  contracts.  The  wealthy  thieves,  who 
profited  at  the  expense  of  the  State  and  two  helpless 
convicts,  sent  us  cases  of  the  choicest  wines.  They 
sent  us  cigars  and  canned  dehcacies,  as  tokens  of 
their  esteem.  We  kept  the  contraband  in  the  post- 
office  and  many  a  stokn  feast,  Billy  and  Porter  and 
I  enjoyed. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Tainted  meat;  O.  Henry's  morbid  curiosity;  his  interview  with  the  Kid 

on  the  eve  of  execution;  the  Kid's  story;  the  death  scene; 

innocence  of  the  Kid. 

I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  letting  of  the  con- 
tracts, but  the  acceptance  of  the  supplies  was  within 
the  pro^dnce  of  the  warden's  office.  I  knew  the  hor- 
rible starvation  forced  on  the  men  in  the  main  dining- 
room.  The  memory  of  my  first  meal  there  with  the 
maggots  floating  in  the  stew  gravy  and  the  flies 
drowned  in  the  molasses  filled  me  with  nausea  every 
time  I  passed  the  kitchen. 

I  made  up  my  mind  for  one  thing  ...  if  tower- 
ing prices  were  paid  for  meat,  I  would  at  least  insist 
that  the  supply  brought  to  the  prison  be  w^holesome. 

"You  can  do  that,"  Porter  said.  "The  warden 
will  bear  you  out  on  it.  We  can  have  that  much 
satisfaction  anyway." 

When  the  first  consignment  came  under  the  new 
contract,  I  went  down  to  look  at  it.  Prepared  as  I 
was  for  cheap  substitutes,  I  was  not  ready  for  the 
shocking  spectacle  before  me  as  the  rotten  stuff  was 
shouldered  out  of  the  wagon. 

"Put  it  back,"  I  yelled.  Breathless  and  fighting 
mad  I  reached  the  warden's  office. 

"They're  unloading  a  lot  of  stinking,  tainted  meat 
dow^n  at  the  butcher  shop.     Flies  wouldn't  crawl  in 


WITH  O.  HENRY  233 

it,  it's  so  rotten.  It's  an  outrage.  We've  paid  for 
prime  roast  beef.  We've  given  the  highest  price  ever 
quoted  on  the  face  of  the  earth  for  meat  and  they've 
brought  us  in  a  load  of  carrion.  What  shall  I  do 
about  it?" 

The  warden  turned  a  white,  startled  face  toward 
me. 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  His  voice  sounded 
seared  and  faint  to  me.  He  started  pacing  the  floor. 
"It's  a  shame  warden,  the  men  are  being  starved. 
The  beans  are  so  old  and  withered  and  only  famished 
men  would  besmirch  themselves  with  that  meat.  We 
could  at  least  require  common  wholesomeness." 

"That's  right,  yes,  that's  right.  You  say  the  meat 
is  absolutely  tainted?  Send  it  back.  Write  to  them 
and  tell  them  we  demand  good  fare." 

I  made  the  letter  strong  enough  to  ring  true.  I 
informed  the  wholesalers  that  the  Ohio  penitentiary 
paid  first-class  prices.  It  demanded  first-class  pro- 
duce. The  meat  we  got  after  that  was  coarse,  but  it 
was  fresh  and  clean. 

I  used  this  one  authorization  from  the  warden 
again  and  again  to  send  back  stuff.  The  contractors 
came  to  realize  that  the  prison  was  no  longer  a  gar- 
bage can  for  their  spoiled  supplies.  They  found  it 
cheaper  to  send  in  a  medium  grade  in  the  beginning. 
"You've  come  to  see  there  are  worse  things  in  the 
world,  Bill,  than  an  ex-convict,"  I  suggested  to  Por- 
ter when  I  told  him  about  the  tainted  meat.  "When 
you  get  out  will  you  brazen  out  their  prejudice  or 
will  you  keep  to  your  old  resolution?" 

Porter  had  about  four  months  more  to  serve.    We 


234    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

kept  a  calendar  and  every  night  we  would  strike  off 
another  day.  It  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  feel  the 
separation  coming  daily  nearer — a  separation  that 
will  be  as  final  and  uncompromising  as  death.  We 
talked  indifferently,  almost  flippantly  at  this  time 
because  we  were  so  deeply  touched. 

"I  have  not  changed.  I  will  keep  my  word.  What 
would  you  do,  colonel,  if  you  should  get  out?" 

"I  will  walk  up  to  the  first  man  I  see  on  the  street 
and  I  will  say  to  him.  *I'm  an  ex-con — just  got  out 
of  the  pen.  If  you  don't  like  it,  go  to  hell."  (I  did 
that  very  thing  some  years  later.) 

Porter  burst  out  laughing.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  ever  heard  him  laugh  outright.  It  seemed  to 
come  bubbling  and  singing  up  from  his  throat  like  a 
rich,  sonorous  tune. 

"I  would  give  a  great  deal  for  your  arrogant  inde- 
pendence.   I  wonder  if  I  will  regret  my  plan?" 

I  don't  believe  he  ever  did,  even  on  the  black  day 
in  New  York  when  he  all  but  admitted  he  could  en- 
dure the  suspense  no  longer. 

*'Is  the  fear  of  life  greater  than  the  fear  of  death, 
Al?  Here  I  am  ready  to  leave  this  pen  and  I  am 
beset  with  anxieties  lest  the  world  may  guess  my 
past." 

Porter  didn't  expect  any  answer  to  his  question. 
He  was  in  a  sort  of  ruminating  mood,  liking  to  speak 
his  thoughts  aloud. 

*'How  hard  we  work  to  make  a  mask  to  hide  the 
real  self  from  our  fellows.  You  know  I  sometimes 
think  the  world  would  go  forward  at  a  lightning  pace 
if  men  would  meet  each  other  as  they  are — if  they 


WITH  O.  HENRY  235 

could,  even  for  a  short  time,  put  aside  pose  and 
hypocrisy. 

"Colonel,  the  wiseacres  pray  to  see  themselves  as 
others  see  them.  I  would  pray  rather  that  others 
might  see  us  as  we  see  ourselves.  How  much  of 
hatred  and  contempt  would  melt  in  that  clear  stream 
of  understanding.  We  could  be  equal  to  hfe  if  we 
tried  hard  enough.  Do  you  think  we  could  ever  look 
into  the  face  of  death  without  a  tremor?" 

"I  have  seen  men  take  a  bullet  and  laugh  with  their 
last  gasp.  I  have  hidden  out  with  the  gang  and  every 
hide  of  us  knew  we  were  probably  on  our  last  stretch. 
None  of  us  were  squeamish  about  it.'* 

"But  there  was  uncertainty  to  give  you  hope.  I 
am  thinking  of  death  that  is  as  certain,  say,  as  my 
release.  Take,  for  instance,  a  condenmed  man — you 
know  they  are  lashed  with  hideous  nightmares.  You 
have  seen  some  of  them  die.    Did  any  go  fearlessly? 

"I  don't  mean  gameness  or  bravado,  but  downright 
absence  of  alarm.  Did  any  one  of  them  seem  to 
grin  in  the  teeth  of  death  as  though  they  were  about 
to  enter  upon  a  sort  of  adventure?" 

"Bill,  you  speak  now  of  the  fellows  who  pay  for 
the  drinks  at  their  own  funeral.  The  jailbird  ain't 
that  kind  of  an  animal." 

"I  would  like  to  talk  to  a  man  who  looked  at  death. 
I  would  like  to  know  what  his  sensations  might  be. 

"I  wonder  if  that's  the  reason  Christ  called  Laza- 
rus back — sort  of  wanted  to  know  what  the  big  jump 
might  be  hke?" 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Porter  was  v^a-iting  a  story 
and  wanted  to  daub  the  color  on  true.     He  never 


236    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

stuck  to  facts,  but  he  went  to  no  end  of  pains  to  set 
up  his  scenery  aright. 

"I  can't  produce  a  Lazarus  to  gratify  your  curi- 
osity, but  there's  a  fellow  due  to  be  bumped  off  in  a 
week  or  so.  You  come  over  tomorrow  and  I'll  knock 
you  down  to  the  near  stiff." 

*'What  is  he  hke?"  Bill  seemed  all  of  a  sudden 
to  weaken  and  his  fluent  whispering  became  hesitant 
and  uncertain. 

"Don't  know.  But  he'll  sit  in  the  chair  in  about 
ten  days.  He  sent  another  fellow  over  the  great 
divide  some  months  ago.  He  says  it's  a  lie  and  he's 
innocent  just  like  a  babe,  you  know." 

There's  nothing  very  esthetic  in  the  prison  soul. 
Men  laugh  and  jest  over  death.  For  weeks  we  would 
know  w^hen  the  electric  chair  was  due  for  a  sitting. 
We  would  watch  the  condemned  man  walking  in  the 
yard  with  a  special  guard  before  he  was  finally  locked 
up  in  the  death  cell  and  fattened  for  the  slaughter. 

''I'd  change  places, them,  I'd  die  for 

the  pleasure  of  gorging  myself  with  a  week  of  square 
meals."  Many  a  time  I  have  heard  raw-boned,  hun- 
gry-eyed men  in  the  ranges  and  shops  fling  out  the 
challenge. 

But  as  the  day  for  the  official  murder  draws  near, 
the  whole  place  seems  overhung  with  mournful  gray 
shadows.  One  can  almost  feel  it  in  the  corridors — 
the  cold,  clammy  atmosphere  of  the  death-day.  It  is 
as  though  drowned  people  vnth  wet  hair  clinging 
about  their  dead  faces  went  drooping  up  and  down 
reaching  out  chilly  fingers  and  putting  their  icy  touch 
on  each  man's  heart. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  237 

We  never  talked  on  those  days  but  often  in  the 
night,  screams^  long,  frightful  and  sobbing — screams 
that  trailed  into  broken  agonized  moans  would  split 
the  air  waking  us  with  creeping  foreboding.  Some 
overwrought  wretch  whose  dream  tormented  him  had 
seen  the  death  in  his  sleep. 

There  was  that  grewsome  hubbub  about  the  prison 
now  for  the  Kid  was  going  to  be  bumped  off.  They 
were  extra  busy  in  the  electrical  department — it  takes 
plenty  of  juice  to  kill  the  condemned. 

Porter  came  over  to  the  campus  to  talk  to  the  man 
who  faced  death.  "There  he  is,  the  soft-looking  fel- 
low walking  with  the  guard — he'U  let  you  talk  to 
him." 

When  a  man  has  but  seven  or  eight  days  of  life 
they  give  him  a  few  privileges  even  in  a  prison.  They 
let  him  take  a  turn  in  the  yard — they  give  him  roast 
beef  and  chicken  to  eat.  They  let  him  read  and  write^ 
and  sometimes  they  let  him  keep  his  light  all  night. 
Darkness  is  such  a  dread  magnifier  of  terrors. 

Porter  went  over  to  talk  to  the  Kid.  The  three 
men  fell  in  together  and  walked  up  and  down  for 
about  five  or  ten  minutes.  The  condemned  man  put 
a  hand  on  Bill's  arm  and  seemed  childishly  pleased 
to  have  such  company. 

When  Porter  came  back  to  me,  his  face  was  a  sick- 
ish  yellow  and  his  short,  plump  hands  were  closed 
so  tight  the  nails  gored  his  flesh.  He  rushed  into  the 
post-office,  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  wiped  his  face. 
The  sweat  stood  out  like  heavy  white  pearls. 

"Guess  you  got  the  scare,  all  right.  Bill?  Get  a 
close  enough  squint  at  the  old  Scythe  Dancer?"   He 


238    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

looked  as  though  he  might  have  seen  an  unholy  ghost. 

"Al,  go  out  and  talk  to  the  boy.  Be  quick.  This 
is  too  monstrous.  I  thought  he  was  a  man.  He  is 
but  a  child.  He  has  no  fear.  He  can't  seem  to  rea- 
lize that  they  mean  to  kill  him.  He  hasn't  looked  at 
death.  He's  too  young.  Something  should  be  done 
about  it." 

I  had  not  talked  to  the  fellow.  I  knew  he  was  up 
for  murder.    I  thought  he  was  about  25. 

''Colonel,  did  you  see  the  way  he  put  his  hand  on 
my  arm?  Why  he's  only  a  little,  ignorant  fellow — 
he's  just  17.  He  says  he  didn't  do  it.  He's  sure 
something  will  happen  to  save  him. 

"Good  God,  colonel,  can  a  man  believe  any  good 
of  the  world  when  cold-blooded  murders  like  this  are 
deliberately  perpetrated?  The  lad  may  be  innocent. 
Al — he  has  gentle,  blue  eyes — I've  seen  ej^es  like 
them  in  a  little  friend  of  mine.  It's  a  damn'  shame 
to  murder  him." 

As  the  warden's  secretary  I  had  to  attend  and 
make  a  record  of  the  executions.  A  soft  youngster 
of  17  would  make  an  ugly  job  for  me. 

I  knew  the  facts  in  this  case.  The  evidence  was 
strong  against  the  Kid.  He  and  a  boy  friend  had 
gone  down  to  the  Scioto  river  one  Sunday  afternoon 
to  take  a  swim. 

The  Kid  came  back  alone — the  other  boy  was  miss- 
ing. Three  weeks  later  a  body  was  found  in  the 
mud  far  down  the  river.  It  was  decomposed  beyond 
the  possibility  of  recognition.  The  face  had  been 
eaten  away. 

The  parents  of  the  missing  boy  had  been  haunt- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  239 

ing  the  morgue.  They  looked  at  the  remains,  fomid 
a  birthmark  on  the  decomposed  body  and  estabHshed 
the  identity  of  their  son.  The  Kid  was  arrested. 
Witnesses  clamored  into  the  courtroom.  They  had 
seen  two  boys  on  the  Scioto  and  the  Kid  was  pointed 
out  as  one  of  them. 

The  boys  had  been  quarreling.  Suddenly  the  Kid 
had  grabbed  his  companion  by  the  arm,  dragged  him 
down  to  the  river,  shouting:  *1'11  drown  you  for 
this!"  Two  men  and  a  woman  had  heard  the  threat. 
The  Kid  was  condemned  on  their  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. 

*' Yes,  sir,  that's  true."  The  youngster  looked  at  me 
with  his  gentle  eyes  and  put  his  hand  on  my  arm  as 
he  had  on  Porter's. 

^^Thet's  true,  all  right— but  thet  ain't  all." 
The  Kid  kept  his  hold  on  me  as  though  he  feared 
I  might  leave  before  he  had  a  chance  to  speak.  It 
was  pathetic — ^his  eagerness  for  company.  We  walked 
up  and  down  in  the  sun  and  he  looked  at  the  sky  and 
at  the  top  of  a  tree  whose  branches  reached  over  the 
wall.  He  said  he  wasn't  afraid  and  there  was  no 
resentment  in  his  expression — ^just  gratitude  for  the 
pleasure  of  talking,  it  seemed. 

*'Yer  see,  Mr.  Al,  me  and  Bob  Whitney  went  down 
to  the  river  thet  Sunday  and  we  got  to  foolin'  and 
wrestlin'  'round  there  and  w^e  wasn't  mad  et  all,  but 
maybe  we  looked  like  we  was.  He  throwed  me  down 
and  landed  on  top  er  me  and  I  jumped  up  and  yells 
that  to  him. 

"I  sed,  'I'll  drown  yer  for  this,'  and  I  pulled  him 
up  and  we  bumped  each  other  down  to  the  water. 


240    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

They  was  people  there  and  they  heard  it,  but  we  was 
only  foolin'. 

"I  had  to  git  back  to  w^ork  and  I  left  Bob  there 
and  I  never  seed  him  again.  And  after  a  while  thet 
body  was  washed  up  and  they  sed  it  was  Bob  and 
thet  I  drowned  him  and  they  tuk  me  into  court  and  I 
got  all  t^^dsted  up. 

"I  told  them  it  was  all  jest  funnin'  and  I  sed  Bob 
was  swimmin'  'round  when  I  left,  but  they  looked  at 
me  like  I  was  lyin'  and  the  judge  sed,  'I  sentence 
yer  to  die  or  somethin'  like  thet — 

"But  death  don't  skeer  me — " 

All  the  time  he  talked  the  Kid  kept  his  rough, 
freckled  hand  on  my  arm.  It  sent  a  chill,  creepy  sensa- 
tion up  to  my  shoulder  and  across  my  neck.  I  never 
saw  softer,  kinder  eyes  than  those  that  ignorant,  un- 
developed boy  of  17  turned  so  persistently  at  me. 
The  more  he  talked  the  harder  it  became  to  picture 
him  walking  to  the  electric  chair. 

I  felt  weak  and  sick  at  the  thought  of  taking  notes 
on  this  Kid's  death  agony.  The  sun  was  warm  and 
gentle  that  day,  and  the  Kid  stood  there  as  if  he  liked 
it  and  he  kept  looking  up  at  the  tree  and  then  at  me. 
He  had  such  a  boyish  jaw  and  chin  and  a  kind  of 
likable  pug  nose  that  had  nothing  malicious  about  it — 
he  didn't  look  like  a  murderer. 

I  could  hardly  imagine  him  capable  even  of  anger. 
He  seemed  to  grow  younger  with  almost  every  sen- 
tence he  uttered. 

"Jest  look  et  thet  tree — ain't  it  a  shinnin',  though? 
We  had  a  tree  like  thet  in  our  back  yard  once  when 
I  was  a  kid.    I  ain't  gonna  show  no  yeller  streak. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  241 

I  ain^t  skeered  to  die.  When  I  was  a  kid  I  had  a  li'l 
sister.  I  sold  newspapers  and  uster  come  in  late.  We 
was  all  alone  'ceptin'  for  a  old  stepmother. 

*'Li'l  Emmy  uster  creep  up  ter  me  and  say, 
'Aintcha  skeered,  Jim,  to  be  out  so  late?  Didjer  bring 
me  a  coolde?'  We  uster  have  fine  times  eaten'  the 
cakes. 

'.'Then  li'l  Emmy  got  sick  and  the  old  hag — that's 
all  v>  e  ever  called  her — beat  her,  and  I  got  mad  and 
we  sneaked  away  and  lived  in  a  basement,  and  we 
w^as  awful  happy,  'cept  thet  li'l  Emmy  was  skeered 
of  everything. 

"She  was  a-skeered  to  go  out,  a-skeered  to  stay 
home  and  she  uster  foller  me  'round  while  I  sold 
the  papers.  'Bout  10  o'clock  we'd  go  home.  She'd 
hug  on  to  my  arm  and  whisper:  'You  ain't  skeered  o' 
nuthin,  are  yer,  Jim?'  We  treated  ourselves  to  cookies 
and  Emmy  made  coffee  and  we  did  jest  whatever  w^e 
wanted  to. 

"Then  Emmy  got  sick  agin  and  she  died.  She  had 
li'l  white  hands,  and  one  finger  got  chopped  off'n  her 
right  hand  when  she  was  a  baby.  And  the  last  thing 
she  did  'fore  she  died — she  put  out  her  hands  to  me 
and  she  sed: 

"  'Jim,  you  ain't  skeered  o'  nuthin',  are  you?  You 
ain't  skeered  to  die?' 

"And  I  ain't.  I'm  gonna  walk  right  up  ter  thet 
chair  same's  it  was  a  plush  sofa  'fore  a  big  fire.'* 

It  was  an  obsession  with  him. 

"I've  got  a  pass  for  you  to  see  the  Kid  die,"  I  said 
to  Porter  the  night  before  the  execution. 

He  looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  a  cannibal  in- 


242    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

viting  him  to  partake  of  the  flesh  of  some  human 
baby.  He  started  up  as  though  jerked  by  an  electric 
shock. 

"Is  that  going  through?  My  God,  what  a  den  of 
depraved  fiends  this  prison  is !  I'd  rather  see  the  only 
thing  I  have  on  this  earth  dead  at  my  feet  than  watch 
the  deliberate  killing  of  the  poor  'softy.'  Excuse  me, 
colonel."  Porter  took  up  his  hat  and  walked  out  of 
the  post-office.  "I  want  to  live  a  few  weeks  after  I  get 
out  of  here." 

I  would  like  to  have  changed  places  with  Bill. 
Death  hadn't  any  terrors  for  me — the  elaborate  cere- 
mony they  made  of  their  murders.  But  I  had  to  be 
in  the  death  cell  when  the  kid  was  bumped  off.  He 
came  in  between  two  guards.  The  chaplain  walked 
behind  him,  reading  in  a  chanting  rumble  from  an 
open  Bible.  The  Kid  lopped  in  as  though  he  had  lost 
control  of  his  muscles;  he  appeared  so  loose  limbed 
and  soft,  and  his  pug  nose  stuck  up,  it  seemed,  more 
than  ever. 

His  gentle  eyes  were  wide-open,  glazed  and  terror- 
stricken.  His  boyish  face  was  ashen  and  his  chin 
shook  so,  I  could  hear  his  teeth  knocking  together. 
The  guard  poured  out  a  big  glass  of  whiskey  and 
handed  it  to  him. 

It  was  a  little  custom  they  had  to  brace  a  man  for 
the  last  jolt. 

The  Kid  pushed  the  glass  from  him,  spilling  the 
liquor  on  the  floor.  He  shook  his  head,  his  chin  sagging 
down  and  quivering. 

"I  don't  need  nutin',  thanks."  His  face  was  blood- 
less as  flour,  and  the  frightened  eyes  darted  from  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  24a 

chair  to  the  warden.  He  caught  sight  of  me.  I  never 
felt  so  like  a  beast — so  like  an  actor  at  a  foul  orgy — 
in  all  my  life. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Al — good  mornin',  mornin'."  His  head 
kept  bobbing  at  me,  so  that  I  could  see  the  big  round 
spot  on  the  crowTi  where  they  had  shaved  the  hair 
clean.  One  of  the  electrodes  would  be  fastened  on 
that  shiny  patch. 

"Mornin',  Mr.  Al,  I  ain't  skeered— what'd  I  tell 
you?  I  ain't  skeered  o'  nuthin'." 

The  Kid's  suit  had  been  slit  up  the  back  seam  so 
that  the  voltage  could  be  shot  through  his  body.  He 
was  led  up  to  the  chair,  his  shoulders  and  his  elbows 
tied  to  its  arms  and  the  straps  adjusted.  The  elec- 
trodes were  placed  against  the  bare  calves  of  his  legs 
and  at  the  base  of  his  brain. 

It  didn't  take  very  long  to  make  the  complete  ad- 
justment, but  to  me  it  seemed  that  the  ignoble  affair 
would  never  be  done  with.  When  he  was  finally 
strapped  down,  the  boy  seemed  about  to  collapse  as 
though  his  bones  had  suddenly  become  jelly,  but  he 
was  compelled  to  sit  upright. 

Warden  Darby  stepped  up  to  the  boy  and  called 
him  by  name. 

"Confess,  Kid,"  the  warden's  breath  chugged  out 
like  a  laboring  engine's.  "Just  admit  what  you  did 
and  I'll  save  you.   I'll  get  you  a  pardon." 

The  Kid  sat  staring  at  him  and  muttering  to  him- 
self, "I  ain't  skeered,  I  tell  yer." 

"Confess,  Kid,"  Darby  yelled  at  him,  "and  I'll  let 
you  out." 

The  Kid  heard  at  last.    He  tried  to  answer.    His 


244    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

lips  moved,  but  none  of  us  could  hear  his  words.   At 
last  the  sound  came; 

"I  ain't  guilty.   I  never  killed  him." 

The  warden  threw  on  the  lever.  A  blue  flame 
darted  about  the  Kid's  face,  singeing  his  hair  and 
making  the  features  stand  out  as  though  framed  in 
lightning.  The  tremendous  voltage  threw  the  body 
into  contortions,  just  as  a  piece  of  barbed  wire 
vibrates  out  when  it  is  suddenly  cut  from  a  fence.  As 
the  current  went  through  him  there  came  a  little 
squeak  from  his  lips.  The  lever  was  thrown  off.  The 
Kid  was  dead. 

For  a  long  time  that  night  neith.er  Porter  nor  I 
said  a  word.  The  whole  prison  seemed  to  be  pressed 
down  with  an  abject  and  sodden  misery.  The  cons 
missed  the  Kid  from  the  patch  of  sunlight  in  the  yard. 
They  knew  he  had  been  bumped  off. 

*' Colonel,  have  you  any  special  hope  as  regards 
heaven?"  Porter  had  a  glass  of  Tipo  half  raised  to 
his  lips.  The  grafters  had  sent  us  a  new  case  of  costly 
Mdnes. 

''Give  me  a  swallow  of  that,  Bill!  it  must  have  a 
wonderful  kick  in  it — up  to  heaven  in  two  gulps!" 
Porter  ignored  me.   It  was  not  a  night  for  jest. 

**I  am  not  speaking  of  a  churchly  paradise,  but 
what,  Al,  is  your  idea  of  a  state  of  perfect  bliss?" 

*'At  present,  Bill,  a  dugout  way  off  in  the  wilder- 
ness, where  I  would  never  again  see  the  faces  of  men. 
I  would  want  plenty  of  cattle  and  horses,  but  no  trace 
of  the  human  kind  except  perhaps  a  few  of  their  books." 

"No,  the  books  would  spoil  it.  Don't  you  realize, 
colonel,  that  the  serpent  who  wrecked  the  first  para- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  245 

dise  was  Thought?  Adam  and  Eve  and  all  their  un- 
fortunate descendants  might  still  be  lolling  in  joyous 
ignorance  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  if  Eve  hadn't 
been  stung  with  the  desire  to  know.  It's  quite  a 
feather  in  a  woman's  cap.  Mother  Eve  was  the  first 
rebel — the  first  thinker." 

Porter  seemed  impressed  with  his  own  brilliance. 
He  nodded  his  head  to  emphasize  his  conviction. 
"Yes,  colonel,"  he  continued,  "thought  is  the  great 
curse.  Often  when  I  was  out  on  the  Texas  ranges  I 
envied  the  sheep  grazing  on  the  mesa.  They  are  sup- 
erior to  men.  They  have  no  meditations,  no  regrets, 
no  memories." 

"You're  wrong,  Bill,  the  sheep  are  more  intelligent 
than  men.  They  mind  their  o^n  business.  They  do 
not  take  upon  themselves  the  powers  which  belong 
to  Nature,  or  Providence,  or  whatever  you  wish  to 
call  it." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  finished  saying.  They  do 
not  think;  therefore  they  are  happy." 

"Plow  stupid  you  are  tonight,  Bill.  You  might  just 
as  well  go  into  ecstasy  over  the  joys  of  non-existence. 
If  thought  makes  us  wretched,  it  is  also  thought  that 
gives  us  our  highest  delight." 

"Certainly,  if  I  did  not  think,  I  would  be  serenely 
contented  tonight.  I  should  not  be  dragged  down 
with  a  ton  weight  of  futile  anger." 

"And  if  you  did  not  think,  you  would  likewise  be 
incapable  of  intense  pleasures." 

"I  have  yet  to  find  in  thought,  Al,  this  beneficent 
aspect.  I  persist — Thought  is  a  curse.  It  is  responsi- 
ble for  all  the  viciousness  found  in  the  human  family ; 


246    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

for  depra\dties  that  are  the.  monopoly  of  the  lofty 
human  species. 

"Colonel — the  Kid's  execution  is  but  one  example 
of  the  viciousness  of  Thought.  Men  think  a  thing  is 
and  they  conclude  that  it  must  be  so.  It  is  a  sort  of 
hypnotism." 

Porter  was  never  yet  coherent  in  his  philosophical 
pickings.  He  would  begin  with  a  whimsical  absurdity 
and  he  would  use  this  as  a  kind  of  string  for  his 
fancies. 

He  would  pick  up  a  thought  here,  an  oddity  there 
and  run  them  all  together.  The  finished  necklace  was 
like  those  chains  of  queerly  sorted  charms  made  by 
squaw  women. 

"Al,"  he  turned  to  me  with  indolent  deliberation, 
attempting  to  conceal  the  anxiety  in  his  mind,  "was 
he  guilty?" 

It  was  the  thought  tormenting  me  at  that  very 
moment.  Neither  of  us  had  been  thinking  of  another 
thing  all  evening. 

"Colonel,  the  horror  of  this  day  has  made  an  old 
man  of  me.  Every  hour  I  could  feel  that  softy's 
freckled  hand  on  my  arm.  I  could  see  his  gentle  eyes 
smiling  into  mine.  I  believe  him.  I  think  he  was 
innocent.    Do  you? 

"You  have  seen  many  face  death.  A  man  might 
persist  in  a  lie.  But  would  a  boy  like  that — a  child 
keep  at  it  so?" 

"Nearly  every  man  who  has  not  pleaded  gi.iilty 
insists  on  his  innocence  to  his  last  breath.  I  don't 
know  about  the  Kid.  He  may  have  been  speaking  the 
truth.   I  felt  that  he  was  innocent." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  247 

"Good  God,  Al— What  a  frightful  thing  if  they 
have  murdered  a  boy  and  he  was  not  guilty!  The 
terrible  insolence  of  men  to  convict  on  circumstantial 
evidence !  Does  it  not  prove  the  conceit  of  Thought  ? 

*' There  can  be  no  certainty  to  second-hand  evidence 
' — ^w^hat  right  have  we  then  to  inflict  an  irrevocable 
penalty?  The  evidence  may  be  disproved;  the  charges 
may  be  withdra\\Ti,  but  the  condemned  may  not  be 
summoned  back  from  the  grave.  It  is  monstrous. 
The  arrogance  of  human  beings  must  tempt  the 
patience  of  God. 

*'I  am  right,  colonel,  for  all  your  opposition, 
thought  not  poised  with  humility,  is  but  a  goad  lashing 
man's  conceit  to  madness  or  at  the  other  extreme  we 
have  thought  unblended  with  faith — then  it  is  but  a 
bludgeon  striking  man's  yearnings  down  to  despond- 
ency." 

Abruptly  he  came  over  to  me.  He  had  picked  up 
another  bead  for  his  fantastic  chain. 

"Was  there  ever  a  case  in  this  pen  when  a  man  was 
electrocuted  and  it  was  afterward  found  that  he  was 
innocent?" 

"Not  in  my  time,  Bill.  But  they  tell  of  several. 
The  old  stir  bugs  could  freeze  the  marrow  in  your 
bones  with  their  tales." 

"Some  of  them  must  be  true.  It  is  inconceivable 
that  man's  judgment  should  always  be  correct.  The 
fact  that  one  man  has  been  cut  off  from  life  on  evil 
evidence  is  sufficient  indictment  against  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  murder  on  circumstantial  proof.  How  can 
men  sit  on  a  jury  and  take  into  their  hands  such 
wicked  power?" 


248    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Several  hours  before  the  9  o'clock  gong  had  sounded 
there  was  a  thick  hush  over  the  sleeping  institution. 
Porter's  whispering  eloquence  had  lulled  into  quiet. 
Our  uneasy  pangs  were  well  diluted  inTipo  and  into 
our  harried  minds  there  had  drifted  a  half-dozing  con- 
tentment. Suddenly  a  hoarse,  nmibling  growl  that 
lifted  into  a  piercing  shriek  came  rasping  out  from 
the  cell  block. 

Porter  leaped  to  his  feet, 

*'What  was  that?  I  was  dreaming.  It  sounded  like 
the  crack  of  doom  to  me.  This  infernal  place  is 
haunted.  I  wonder  if  the  Kid's  spirit  rests  easily 
tonight  ?  Colonel,  do  you  believe  in  spirits,  in  an  after 
life,  in  a  God?" 

*'Xo,  I  don't — ^leastwise,  I  don't  think  I  do." 

*'Well,  I  do  in  a  way.  I  think  there  is  some  kind 
of  an  all-powerful  spirit,  but  the  God  of  humanity 
doesn't  loiter  in  this  pen.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  a 
student  of  criminology. 

"If  I  thought  much  about  this  affair  of  today  I 
would  lose  all  faith,  aU  happiness.  I  would  never  be 
able  to  write  a  hopeful  line." 

It  was  well  for  Porter  that  his  release  was  due  in 
a  short  time.  The  world  could  not  afford  to  miss  the 
buoyancy  of  his  faith. 

He  was  not  in  the  prison  when  the  shocking  truth 
came  out.  The  Press  Post  carried  the  story,  bringing 
out  again  all  the  facts  in  the  case.  Bob  Whitney,  the 
boy  whose  body  was  supposed  to  have  been  washed  up 
from  the  Scioto,  turned  up  in  Portsmouth.  He  wrote 


WITH  O.  HENRY  249 

to  his  parents.    He  kPxew  nothing  about  the  Kid's 
execution. 

The  State  had  made  a  little  mistake.  It  had  bumped 
off  a  boy  of  17  for  a  murder  that  was  never  committed. 
It  had  thought  the  Kid  was  guilty, 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Last  days  of  0.  Heory  in  prison;  intimate  details;  his  going  away  outfit; 
goodbys;  his  departure. 

The  last  leaf  on  the  calendar  was  turned.  Porter 
had  but  seven  days  more  to  serve.  Even  Billy  grew 
quiet.  When  Porter  came  to  the  post-office,  we  would 
wait  on  him,  yielding  him  the  only  comfortable  chair, 
kicking  a  foot-stool  under  his  feet.  And  once  Billy 
gi-abbed  up  a  pillow  from  his  cot  and  stuffed  it  under 
Porter's  head.  Porter  stretched  his  ample  body  and 
turned  on  Billy  a  cherubic  smile. 

"Gee,  Bill,  I  ain't  a  gonna  die,  am  I?  Feel  my 
pulse." 

It  was  like  that — funny — but  under  the  burlesque 
was  the  disturbing  sadness  of  farewell.  We  were  full 
of  idiotic  consideration  for  Porter  as  people  are  when 
they  feel  that  a  friend  is  leaving  them  forever. 

We  were  packing  a  suitcase  of  memories  for  him 
to  carry  along  into  the  open  world,  hoping  he  might 
turn  to  it  now  and  again  with  a  thought  for  the  two 
cons  left  in  the  prison  post-office. 

Goodbys  are  almost  always  one-sided,  as  though 
fate  offered  a  toast — and  the  one  who  goes  drinks  off 
the  wine  and  hands  the  glass  with  the  dregs  to  the 
one  who  stays  behind. 

A  twinge  of  regret  Porter  felt  in  the  parting,  per- 
haps, but  it  sent  only  a  tremendous  quiver  through  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  251 

buoyant  swell  of  his  joy  in  the  thought  of  freedom. 
He  was  excited  and  full  of  a  nervous  gaiety.  His 
whispering,  hesitant  voice  took  on  a  chirp  and  his 
serene  face  was  jaunty  with  happiness. 

"Colonel,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor.  I  don't 
mind  an  obligation  to  you.  I'll  never  pay  it  back  and 
you  won't  hold  it  against  me.  You  see,  Al,  I'm 
worried.  I  don't  want  to  get  arrested  for  running 
around  unclad.  And  that's  what  might  happen  if  you 
don't  lend  your  valuable  aid. 

"It's  this  way.  The  stuff  they  make  the  going- 
away  suits  with  goes  away  too  quickly.  It  melts  in 
the  sun  and  if  it  should  rain  it  dissolves.  A  man  has 
no  protection  nohow. 

"Now,  when  I  came  to  this  institution  I  brought 
a  fine  tweed  suit  with  me.  I'd  like  it  back  as  a  sort 
of  dowry.  Will  you  look  it  up  for  me,  please?  I  do 
not  admire  prison  gray.  I'm  afraid  it  is  not  a  fashion- 
able color  this  summer." 

The  large,  humorous  mouth — the  one  feature  that 
was  a  bit  weak — grinned.  Porter  buttoned  his  coat 
and  surveyed  himself  sideways  with  the  air  of  a  dandy. 
A  sheepish  light  stole  into  his  eye. 

"I  feel  like  a  bride  getting  a  trousseau.  I'm  so 
particular  about  the  sendoff  this  paternal  roof  is  going 
to  give  me." 

Porter's  old  suit  had  been  given  away  to  some  other 
out-going  convict. 

"Use  your  influence,  colonel,  and  get  me  a  good- 
looking  business  suit.  I'll  leave  it  to  your  judgment, 
but  pick  me  out  a  rich  brown." 

The  superintendents  of  all  the  shops  knew  the  secre- 


252    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

tary  of  the  steward's  office.  They  were  all  fond  of 
the  ninible-tongued,  amiable  dignity  that  was  Bill 
Porter's.  Everyone  wanted  to  make  him  a  present  as 
he  was  leaving. 

"Porter  goin'  on  his  honeymoon?  Sure  pick  out 
the  best  we've  got.  Harry  Ogle  was  the  outside  super- 
intendent of  the  State  shop.  He  led  me  over  to  the 
storeroom  and  pulled  down  bolt  after  bolt  of  jQne 
wool  cloth. 

The  regulation  convict  suit  was  made  of  some  cotton 
mixture.  The  government  paid  the  state  $25  to  clothe 
its  outgoing  prisoners.  The  raiment  was  worth  about 
$4.50. 

"Here's  the  finest  piece  of  brown  English  worsted 
in  the  State  of  Ohio."  We  decided  on  that  and  Porter 
came  over  for  a  fitting.  The  men  laughed  as  they 
measured  him. 

"Want  the  seams  runnin'  crostwise  just  to  be  other- 
wise," they  twitted.  "If  you  had  the  pockets  turned 
upside  down,  they'd  never  git  wise  to  where  this  hand- 
some suit  come  from.  And  you  ain't  got  nuthin'  to 
put  in  the  pockets,  anyways,  and  you'd  be  sure  not  to 
come  back  as  a  sneak  thief." 

It  would  have  hurt  Porter's  pride  at  another  time, 
but  he  was  so  concerned  with  the  multitude  of  small 
preparations  he  laughed  and  bandied  back  the  crude 
jests  of  the  prison  tailors.  In  return  they  fashioned 
a  suit  that  was  without  fault,  even  to  Porter's 
fastidious  taste. 

On  the  night  of  July  23 — the  next  morning  he  was 
to  leave — Porter  smuggled  over  his  outfit. 

"Gentlemen,    whenever   a   great   drama   is   to   be 


WITH  O.  HENRY  253 

staged,  it  is  customary  to  give  a  dress  rehearsal.  Let 
the  curtain  up." 

Bill  tried  on  the  suit.  He  had  a  black  Katy  hat 
like  the  derby  worn  today  and  a  pair  of  shoes  made 
by  a  life  termer.  Prison  shoes  squeak.  They  can  be 
heard  a  mile  off.  The  cons  used  to  say  it  was  due  on 
purpose  to  prevent  a  silent  getaway.  Porter's  were 
no  exception. 

"I'll  make  quite  a  noise  in  the  world,  colonel.  I'm 
bringing  my  own  brass  band  along." 

"You're  bound  to  make  a  noise  there.  Bill." 

"Here,  try  some  of  this  hair  tonic  on  them."  Billy 
got  down  Porter's  remedy.  "It  can  take  the  kick  out 
of  anything." 

Flippant,  meaningless  banter  —  we  spent  the 
precious  hours  flipping  it  back  and  forth.  It  was  like 
the  empty  foam  tossed  from  great  waves  against  an 
impregnable  rock.  The  waves  themselves  come  with 
a  mighty  rush,  but  at  the  base  of  the  crag  they  ebb 
as  though  their  force  were  suddenly  spent. 

Thoughts  and  a  hundred  anxious  questions  were 
pushing  upward  in  a  surge  of  emotions,  but  at  the 
tongue  they  failed  and  we  dashed  out  this  froth.  We 
talked  of  everything  but  our  thoughts. 

Even  the  warden  was  nervous  when  Porter  came 
into  the  office  for  his  discharge. 

"I  worked  them  all  night,  colonel,"  Porter  pointed 
to  the  shoes.  "Their  eloquence  is  irrepressible." 

"If  you  looked  any  better,  Bill,  the  ladies  would 
kidnap  you  for  a  Beau  Brummel." 

"I  shall  not  be  taken  into  captivity  again  on  any 
charge." 


254    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Porter's  face  was  slightly  lined.  He  looked  older 
for  his  39  months  in  prison,  but  even  so,  his 
was  a  head  and  a  bearing  to  attract  attention  any- 
where. There  was  about  him  now  an  attitude  of  con- 
fidence, or  self-sufficiency,  of  dignity.  He  looked  more 
like  a  well-educated,  cultured  business  man  than  like 
an  ex-convict. 

There  were  visitors  in  the  outer  office.  The  warden 
stepped  outside,  telling  me  to  give  Bill  his  discharge 
papers.  As  soon  as  we  were  alone  the  intense  strain 
became  unbearable.  I  wanted  to  cram  everything 
into  those  last  moments.  I  wanted  to  say:  ''Good 
luck — God  bless  you — Go  to  hell." 

But  neither  of  us  spoke.  Bill  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow and  I  sat  down  to  the  desk.  For  10  minutes 
be  stood  there.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that  he 
was  taking  this  parting  in  a  very  indifferent  manner. 

*'Bill,"  my  voice  was  husky  with  resentment  and  he 
turned  quickly;  "won't  you  be  outside  soon  enough? 
Can't  you  look  this  way  for  the  last  few  minutes  we've 
got?" 

The  coaxLQg  smile  on  his  lips,  he  put  out  his  strong, 
short  hand  to  me.  "Al,  here's  a  book,  I  sent  to  town 
for  it  for  you."  It  was  a  copy  of  "Omar  Khayyam." 
I  handed  him  the  discharge  and  his  $5.  Porter  had 
at  least  $60  or  $70 — the  proceeds  from  his  last  story. 
He  took  the  $5. 

"Here,  colonel,  give  this  to  Billy — ^he  can  buy  alco- 
hol for  his  locomotor  ataxia." 

That  was  all.  He  went  toward  the  door  and  then 
he  came  back  the  old  drollery  in  his  eye. 

"I'll  meet  you  in  New  York,  colonel.   You  might 


WITH  O.  HENRY  255 

beat  the  brakes  there  before  me.  I'll  be  on  the  watch. 
Goodby,  Air 

Porter's  voice  lapsed  into  a  low  whisper  at  the  end. 
He  went  to  the  door,  and,  without  looking  back,  went 
out.  I  felt  as  though  something  young  and  bonny — 
something  lovable  and  magnetic — was  gone  forever. 

"No  leaves  on  the  calendar,  Al!"  Billy  Raidler 
scratched  off  the  last  number,  shook  his  head  and 
tore  off  the  page.  He  looked  over  at  me  through  a 
gloom  of  silence. 

"Another  day  gone  into  night." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

O.  Henry's  silence;    a   letter  at  last;  the  proposed  story;   Mark  Hanna 
visits   the   prison;    pardon;    double-crossed;   freedom. 

Egotism  is  the  bridge  whereon  men  have  crawled 
upward  from  the  jungle.  There  is  no  limit  to  its 
reaches.  It  spans  even  the  heavens,  paving  the  way  to 
gods  and  angels,  whose  sole  delight  is  to  minister  to 
men.  It  is  not  stopped  even  at  the  grave,  but  flings 
a  tight  rope  beyond,  and  on  this  hair  line  Man  marches 
to  Immortality.  Without  Egotism,  the  human  animal 
never  would  have  developed. 

Across  one  chasm  it  does  not  stretch — the  chasm 
between  the  World  and  Prison.  And  in  this  exile  the 
convict  becomes  spiritless  and  hopeless.  He  expects 
nothing,  for  he  has  lost  the  self-esteem  that  buoys 
trust. 

When  Bill  Porter  went  down  the  walk  to  the  Open 
Road  in  his  squeaky  shoes  and  the  arrogant  yellow 
gloves  Steve  Bussel  had  given  him,  neither  Billy 
Raidler  nor  I  ever  expected  to  catch  again  an  echo 
from  those  familiar  footsteps.  He  had  sauntered  out 
of  our  lives.  We  were  glad  for  the  sunny  companion- 
ship he  had  given  us  when  he  was  one  with  our- 
selves. 

We  talked  about  him  now  and  then,  Billy  always 
brought  up  the  conversation. 


WITH  O.  HBNRY  257 

"I  need  some  tobacco — a  special  brand — think  I'll 
drop  a  line  to  Bill  Porter  and  ask  him  to  send  it  on." 
Or  again,  it  was  his  hair  that  worried  him.  *'Fool  that 
I  was — I  forgot  to  get  that  remedy  from  Bill.  I'm 
like  to  be  bald  before  he  sends  his  address.  Say,  Al, 
didn't  he  promise  to  give  you  a  lift  on  the  story — 
what  about  it?" 

But  the  weeks  went  by  and  no  word  came.  A 
month  and  a  half  to  the  day  Billy  sent  a  runner  to 
the  warden's  office  with  a  letter  postmarked  "Pitts- 
bui'gh."  The  runner  brought  a  note  from  Raidler: 
^'Al,  send  me  back  that  letter.  My  locomotor  ataxia 
is  itchin'  to  see  what  Bill's  got  to  say.  Yours  in  great 
peril,  Billy." 

Here  is  the  first  letter  Bill  Porter — ^he  had  already 
taken  the  name  of  O.  Henry — had  sent  to  me  at  the 
Ohio  penitentiary.  He  had  not  forgotten  us  and  he 
had  already  made  good : 

"Dear  Jennings:  I  have  intended  to  write  to  you 
and  Billy  every  week  since  I  left,  but  kept  postponing 
it  because  I  expected  to  move  on  to  Washington 
(sounds  like  Stonewall  Jackson  talk,  doesn't  it?) 
almost  any  time.  I  am  very  comfortably  situated  here, 
but  expect  to  leave  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  anyhow. 

"I  have  been  doing  quite  a  deal  of  business  with 
the  editors  since  I  got  down  to  work  and  have  made 
more  than  I  could  at  any  other  business.  I  want  to 
say  that  Pittsburgh  is  the  *low-do^vnedest'  hole  on 
the  surface  of  the  earth.  The  people  here  are  the  most 
ignorant,  ill-bred,  contemptible,  boorish,  degraded, 
insulting,  sordid,  vile,  foul-mouthed,  indecent,  pro- 
fane, drunken,  dirty,  mean,  depraved  curs  that  I  ever 


258         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

imagined  could  exist.  Columbus  people  are  models 
of  chivalry  compared  with  them.  I  shall  linger  here 
no  longer  than  necessary. 

"Besides,  on  general  principles,  I  have  a  special 
object  in  >vriting  to  you  just  now.  I  have  struck  up 
quite  a  correspondence  with  the  editor  of  Everybody's 
Magazine.  I  have  sold  him  two  articles  in  August 
and  have  orders  for  others.  In  writing  to  him  some 
time  ago  I  suggested  an  article  with  a  title  something 
like  'The  Art  and  Humor  of  Holding  Up  a  Train,' 
telling  him  that  I  thought  I  could  get  it  written  by 
an  expert  in  the  business. 

"Of  course,  I  mentioned  no  names  or  localities.  He 
seemed  very  much  struck  with  the  idea  and  has  written 
twice  asking  about  it.  The  only  fear  he  had,  he  said, 
was  that  the  expert  would  not  put  it  in  a  shape  suit- 
able for  publication  in  Everybody's  as  John  Wana- 
maker  was  very  observant  of  the  proprieties. 

"Now,  if  you  would  care  to  turn  yourself  loose  on 
the  subject  there  may  be  something  in  it  and  a  start 
on  future  work  besides.  Of  course,  you  needn't  dis- 
close your  identity  in  the  slightest  degree.  What  he 
wants  (as  I  thought  he  would)  is  a  view  of  the  subject 
from  the  operator's  standpoint. 

"]My  idea  would  be  a  chatty  sort  of  article — just 
about  the  way  you  usually  talk,  treating  it  descrip- 
tively and  trying  out  the  little  points  and  details, 
just  as  a  man  would  talk  of  his  chicken  farm  or  his 
hog  ranch. 

"If  you  want  to  tackle  it,  let  me  know  and  I'll  send 
you  my  idea  of  the  article,  with  all  the  points  that 
should  be  touched  upon.   I  will  either  go  over  it  and 


WITH  O.  HENRY  259 

arrange  it  according  to  my  conception  of  the  magazine 
requirements,  or  will  forward  your  original  MS., 
whichever  you  prefer.  Let  me  know  soon,  as  I  want 
to  answer  his  letter. 

"Well  how  is  the  P.  O.  and  vice  versa?  It's  an 
awful  job  for  me  to  write  a  letter.  I  believe  my  pencil 
handwriting  is  nearly  as  bad  as  yours. 

"One  letter  to  Harris  is  the  best  I've  accomplished 
in  the  way  of  correspondence  since  I  left.  I  haven't 
written  to  Louisa  in  two  months.  I  hope  she 
don't  feel  grieved.  I  am  going  to  write  her  pretty 
soon. 

"If  I  could  get  30  days  in  the  O.  P.  I  believe  I'd 
crack  one  of  the  statues  that  much  to  get  a  change 
of  society  from  the  hounds  here.  I'd  rather  sit  in  the 
dumphouse  there  and  listen  to  the  bucket  lids  rattle 
than  to  hear  these  varmints  talk,  as  far  as  entertain- 
ment is  concerned. 

"Pard,  they  don't  get  no  lowdowneder  than  the  air 
here.  If  I  could  just  have  that  black  coon  that  comes 
in  the  P.  O.  every  night  with  a  tin  bucket  to  run  with 
here  instead  of  Pittsburglars,  I'd  be  much  better 
satisfied. 

"Give  Billy  R.  my  profoundest  respects.  Tell  him 
he's  more  pumpkins  than  the  whole  population  of 
Pennsylvania  rolled  into  one  man,  not  excluding  John 
Wanamaker's  Sunday  school  class.  May  the  smoke 
of  his  cigarettes  ascend  forever. 

"Write  me  as  soon  as  you  feel  like  it  and  I  assure 
you  I  will  be  glad  to  hear  from  you.  I  am  surrounded 
by  wolves  and  fried  onions,  and  a  word  from  one  of 
the  salt  of  the  earth  will  come  like  a  clap  of  manna 


260    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

from  a  clear  roof  garden.   Remember  me  to  Messrs. 
Ira  Maralatt  and  Star  (D.  J.). 

"Sincerely  yours,  W.  S.  P." 

In  less  than  two  months  the  road  from  prison  forked 
into  the  road  to  fame  for  Bill  Porter.  The  plans  he 
had  made  matured.     He  set  resolutely  to  his  work. 

"Behold  me,  the  lazy  man  Louisa  used  to  guy,'* 
he  said  in  a  second  letter,  "averaging  $150  a  month. 
I  always  knew  they  didn't  know  laziness  from  dignified 
repose." 

That  letter  from  Porter  did  more  than  restore  trust 
in  a  friend.  It  gave  me  a  foothold  on  the  great  bridge. 
Self-confidence  and  hope  leaped  into  quivering 
vitality.  Bill  Porter  believed  I  could  make  good.  He 
was  holding  out  a  hand  to  me. 

I  set  to  work  that  night.  Billy  held  the  pens.  We 
were  the  kind  who  "dash  off  stories"  that  editors  dash 
back.  It  was  nearly  morning  when  the  first  draft  of 
the  "holdup"  was  ready  for  mail. 

Our  Fate  drives  onward  like  a  snowball — gathering 
momentum  with  every  act.  Some  deed  that  is  but  a 
flake  drops  across  the  current  of  our  lives  and  before 
we  are  aware  of  it  the  flake  has  doubled,  tripled  its 
size.  A  thousand  kindred  flakes  flutter  down  to  meet 
it  until  the  tremendous  force  gathers  itself  together 
and  rushes  us  to  our  Destiny. 

It  seemed  to  be  this  way  with  me.  Porter's  letter 
was  the  first  incident — another  and  another  came  pre- 
cipitately. A  new  outlook  was  before  me. 

We  sent  the  outline  of  the  story  to  Porter.  In  two 
days  we  had  an  answer. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  261 

"Dear  Pard — Your  prompt  reply  was  received  this 
morning  and  read  with  pleasure.  I  assure  you  it  is 
always  a  joyful  thing  for  a  man  in  Pittsburgh  to  be 

reminded  of  the  O.  P.    It  is  like  Lazarus  in  H 

looking  up  and  seeing  the  rich  men  order  a  schooner. 

"Am  I  then  so  much  in  love  with  the  O.  P.?  No, 
my  son,  I  am  speaking  comparatively.  I  am  only  try- 
ing to  put  the  royal  skibunk  onto  Pittsburgh.  The 
only  difference  between  P.  and  O.  P.  is  that  they  are 
allowed  to  talk  at  dinner  here.     .     .     ." 

With  the  most  illuminating  detail,  Porter  went  on 
to  give  me  the  directions  for  writing  the  story.  I  used 
my  first  experience  in  train-robbery — the  stickup  of 
the  M.  K.  T.  That  letter  was  a  lesson  in  short-story 
writing.  It  showed  the  unlimited  pains  O.  Henry 
took  to  make  his  work  the  li^dng  reality  it  is. 

He  neglected  nothing — character,  setting,  atmos- 
phere, traits,  slang — all  were  considered;  all  must  be 
in  harmony  with  the  theme.  I  spoke  of  this  letter 
in  connection  with  the  chapter  on  my  first  expedition 
with  the  outlaws.  It  served  as  a  model  outline  for  me 
in  my  future  attempts. 

When  the  story  was  finished  Billy  and  I  went  over 
it.  Billy  demanded  that  real  blood  be  shed  just  to 
give  it  color,  but  I  stuck  to  the  facts.  The  genuine 
outlaw  kills  only  when  his  own  life  is  at  stake. 

"It's  a  wonder,  anyway,  Al— gee  whiz — you  and 
Bill  will  be  no  end  famous." 

Porter  revised  the  narrative,  slashed  it,  added  to  it, 
put  the  kick  in  it — made  it  a  story.  We  waited  a 
month  for  an  answer.  And  in  the  mean  time,  Fate 
was  busy. 


262         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

For  three  years  my  father  and  my  brother  John 
had  worked  persistently  for  the  commutation  of  my 
sentence.  They  had  many  influential  friends.  Frank 
>ras  still  in  Leavenworth.  His  term  was  but  five  years. 
I  had  worked  up  a  following  with  the  wealthy  con- 
tractors. Some  of  them  took  a  liking  to  me.  They 
promised  to  pull  the  wires  to  win  my  release.  All  at 
once,  our  combined  efforts  seemed  to  have  produced 
a  result. 

I  was  filling  out  requisitions  in  the  warden's  office. 
A  big,  corpulent  man,  bluff,  hardy,  but  likable,  walked 
into  the  room.  He  seemed  to  fill  up  the  entire  space. 
I  don't  beheve  the  Lord  Himself  would  have  given 
out  such  an  all-pervading  impression.  The  man  was 
Mark  Hanna. 

"Where  is  the  warden?"  he  asked.  **Out,"  I  an- 
iswered. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  man  by  the  name  of  Jennings." 

*T  presume  I'm  the  man,"  I  answered  with  great 
dignity.   "That's  my  name." 

Hanna  sent  an  appraising  glance  from  the  top  of 
my  fiery  head  to  my  well-shined  boots.  He  brushed 
out  his  hand  as  though  flecking  me  out  of  his  mind 
as  a  man  might  a  fly  from  his  wrist. 

"Well,  you're  not  the  Jennings  I'm  looking  for. 

This  fellow  was  a  train-robbing  s in  the 

Indian  Territory." 

"I'm  all  of  that  except  the  s ." 

The  heavy  fellow  laughed  until  his  jowls  shook. 

"Vv^hy,  you're  no  bigger  than  a  shrmip  and  just 
about  that  red." 

Even  from  a  Senator  this  raillery  was  a  bit  insolent. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  263 

I  didn't  exactly  like  it.  "Senator,  a  Colt's  forty-five 
makes  all  men  equal."  Hanna  seemed  greatly; 
amused.  The  warden  came  in. 

"Who  is  this  atom?"  he  asked.  Darby  entered  at 
once  into  Hanna's  merriment. 

"The  gentleman  was  a  train-robber  by  profession. 
His  name  is  Jennings.  His  career  met  with  a  sad 
interruption  and  now  he  is  detained  here  by  the  gov- 
ernment for  life." 

Hanna  evidently  had  the  school  boy's  idea  of  the 
bandit.  He  was  prepared  to  see  a  six-footer  with  a 
tough  mug  where  a  human  face  should  be  and  the 
mark  of  all  damnation  in  his  mouth  and  eye.  He 
couldn't  reconcile  my  five-foot  four  with  the  picture. 
But  he  sat  down  and  we  began  to  talk.  I  became 
voluble.  I  told  him  a  hundred  odd  escapades  of  the 
outlaw  days.  It  seemed  to  entertain  him. 

"You're  a  likable  microbe.  I've  heard  of  you  from 
very  reliable  sources.  I  believe  you  are  straight,  I'll 
speak  to  Mr.  McKinley  about  you.  He  is  the  kindest 
man  in  the  v/orld.    We'll  get  you  out." 

The  promise  raised  me  to  almost  hysterical  hilarity. 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  freedom.  I  im^agined  I 
would  be  turned  loose  perhaps  the  next  day — surely 
within  a  week.  I  wrote  to  Porter  telling  him  I  would 
see  him  within  the  fortnight.  We  could  collaborate 
on  another  story.  (For  Porter  had  been  generous 
enough  to  call  me  a  collaborator  for  the  "dope"  on 
the  holdup.)    He  wrote  back. 

"Great  news,"  he  said.  "Hanna  can  do  it.  He  made 
the  President  and  he  has  a  chattel  m.ortgage  on  the 
United  States." 


264    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

The  fortnight  came.  Porter  sent  an  urgent  query, 
**Why  didn't  you  show  up,  colonel?  I  had  the  schoon- 
ers chartered."  In  the  same  letter  he  told  me  that 
the  story  as  he  had  revised  it  had  been  accepted  by 
Everybody's,  The  check  would  be  sent  on  publica- 
tion. 

*'As  soon  as  the  check  comes,  I'll  send  you  your 
'sheer  of  the  boodle.'  By  the  way,  please  keep  my 
nom  de  plume  strictly  to  yourself.  I  don't  want  any- 
one to  know  just  yet. 

*'P.  S. — Did  you  get  a  little  book  on  short  story 
writing?  The  reason  I  ask,  I  had  a  store  order  it 
and  they  were  to  send  it  direct  to  you.  You  have  to 
watch  these  damn  hellions  here  or  they'll  do  you  for 
5  cents." 

The  story-writing  kept  my  mind  occupied  in  the 
months  of  waiting  for  the  promised  commutation.  At 
last  a  telegram  came!  I  would  be  free. 

They  were  anxious,  straining  days — in  that  week 
before  my  discharge.  Hopes,  ambitions,  old  ideals — 
they  went  like  tireless  phantoms  before  my  eyes. 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  had  but  one  thought — "I  must 
make  good — I've  got  to  get  back — I'll  show  them 
all." 

It  was  the  morning  of  my  release.  Warden  Darby 
tnet  me  in  the  corridor. 

"Walk  over  to  the  hospital  with  me,  Al."  Darby's 
face  was  mottled  grey — it  got  that  way  whenever  he 
was  laboring  under  excitement  or  anger. 

"By  God,  Al,  I  hate  to  tell  you!" 

I  stood  still — the  hot  blood  pounding  into  my 
throat,  my  ears.  I  felt  as  though  the  flesh  were  drop- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  265 

ping  from  my  bones  in  a  kind  of  throbbing  terror. 
Was  my  father  dead?  Was  John  dead? 

"They've  done  you  a  damn'  scurvy  trick,  Al.  The 
United  States  marshal  is  waiting  for  you.  They're 
going  to  take  you  to  Leavenworth  for  five  years 
more." 

Five  years  more  in  prison!  It  might  as  well  have 
been  fifty.  A  blighting  tornado  of  rage  overswept 
me,  whipping  out  every  new  hope,  every  honest 
thought.  I  felt  lashed  and  tormented  as  though  the 
blood  in  my  veins  were  suddenly  turned  into  a  million 
scorpions,  stinging  me  to  a  hot  fury  of  blinding  mad- 
ness. 

I  rushed  into  the  post-office,  dashed  the  neat  bundHe 
of  treasures  I  had  gathered  to  the  ground.  Photo- 
graphs of  some  of  the  "cons" — a  steel  watch  fob  a 
*  lifer"  in  the  contract  shop  made  for  me,  an  old 
wooden  box  fashioned  by  a  "stir-bug"  in  the  lumber 
mills — these  and  a  few  other  things  I  had  wrapped 
together.  I  wanted  these  mementoes.  Billy  looked 
at  me  and  the  trinkets  strewn  to  the  floor. 

"Don't  seem  to  be  too  chipper,  Al.  Ain't  sorry  to 
kick  the  dust  of  the  O.  P.  off  your  boots,  be  ye?" 

I  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  dumping  the  treasure 
into  a  big  handkerchief  and  dumping  them  out  again, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  repetition.  I  was  afraid  to 
talk,  afraid  even  to  look  at  Billy.  A  murderous  hatred 
was  rearing  like  an  angry  snake  in  my  mind. 

Before  I  was  aware  of  it  Billy  had  shuffled  over  to 
me,  helping  himself  along  with  the  chair.  He  sat 
down,  grabbed  the  bundle  out  of  my  hands  and  tied 
it  up. 


266         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"What  hit  you,  AlV 

"Double-crossed.  'Tain't  New  York,  'tain't  Okla- 
homa, it's  Leavenworth  for  me — five  years." 

I  spat  the  words  out  in  a  vicious  gust.  Billy 
dropped  the  bundle,  his  mouth  sagged  open.  Amazed 
and  unbelieving,  he  stared  at  me. 

"Can't  be  true,  Al.  They're  kiddin'  you." 

I  took  the  bundle  from  him.  "The  marshal  is  wait- 
ing for  me!"      I  started  running  from  the    room. 

"Al,  you  ain't  going  without  sayin'  goodby?" 
Billy's  crippled  spine  kept  him  from  reaching  me. 
I  turned  back.  He  stretched  out  his  slender  hand. 
He  was  crying.    "It's  a  damn'  shame,  Al." 

I  went  outside  into  a  warm  flood  of  sunshine.  There 
was  a  zip  and  a  dash  in  the  air  and  the  flowers  seemed 
to  flaunt  their  jaunty  spring  colors.  If  I  had  been 
free  I  would  have  gulped  in  that  buoyant  gladness 
in  the  air. 

I  was  doomed,  and  the  slap  in  the  soft  breezes 
put  only  an  added  tang  to  the  bitterness  in  my  heart. 
,The  marshal's  long,  black  figure  leaned  against  a 
stone  column  just  outside  the  gates.  He  was  twirling 
something  that  glittered  in  his  hands. 

As  I  came  near  him  he  took  a  step  toward  me, 
dangling  the  handcuffs.  Something  insane,  unreason- 
ing as  a  tiger,  possessed  me.  I  made  a  leap.  The 
marshal  drew  back.  We  faced  each  other,  both  ready 
to  spring.  And  then  Darby,  breathless  and  flurried, 
was  between  us. 

"Don't  handcuff  him!  He's  straight  as  a  die."  The 
marshal,  abeady  weak  with  fear,  dropped  the  steel 
rings  into  his  pocket   "He  won't  try  to  escape." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  267 

For  the  entire  trip  he  made  no  attempt  to  guard  me. 
I  made  no  effort  to  escape.  At  Leavenworth  he  turned 
me  over  to  the  warden.  The  shame  and  the  ignominy 
of  going  again  through  the  measurements,  the 
mugging,  the  head-shaving,  of  standing  again  in  the 
fourth-grade  criminal  class,  humihated  me  with  a 
mean,  paltry,  slap-in-the-face  kind  of  feeling. 

I  had  no  interest  left  in  life.  Not  even  the  thought 
of  seeing  Frank  buoyed  me. 

I  felt  too  degraded  to  wish  for  the  meeting.  It  was 
a  silent,  mournful  reunion  two  pals  had.  Frank 
looked  at  me  and  I  at  him,  and  we  didn't  say  a  word 
until  the  guard  beckoned  for  me  to  leave. 

Something  had  died  in  me.  After  that  I  saw  very 
little  of  my  brother.  I  didn't  even  try  to  see  him.  Six 
months  of  weary,  sordid  stagnation  wheeled  along. 

And  then  one  morning,  with  but  a  breath  of  warn- 
ing, the  light  broke  for  me.    I  walked  out  of  the  pen. 

John  and  my  father  had  pressed  my  case.  The 
United  Circuit  Court  of  Appeals  released  me  on  a 
writ  of  habeas  corpus.  The  court  ruled  that  my 
imprisonment  in  Leavenworth  was  illegal  and  that  the 
verdict  which  sentenced  me  to  five  years  was  worthless, 
as  I  had  received  this  term  on  top  of  a  sentence  to 
life. 

I  had  been  convicted  in  one  county  and  given  life 
for  the  Rock  Island  train-robbery.  I  had  been  im- 
mediately whisked  to  another  district  and  given  ^ve 
years  for  assault  on  Marshal  Bud  Ledbetter.  The 
court  ruled  that  this  district  had  no  jurisdiction  oveij 
me  at  the  time  the  sentence  was  imposed. 

When  they  told  me  I  was  free  it  was  as  immaterial 


268    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

to  me  as  though  they  had  ordered  me  to  cany  a 
message  from  one  cell  block  to  another. 

Six  months  before  Billy  Raidler  and  I  had  sat  far 
into  the  night  discussing  my  future.  Should  I  go  to 
New  York  and  try  to  write,  make  a  fortune  and  return 
to  the  home  folks? 

Should  I  dash  back  to  them  dead  broke  and  trust 
to  luck  for  success? 

These  problems  did  not  exist  for  me  now.  I  had 
fallen  into  a  kind  of  lethargy.  I  had  written  to  no 
one.  I  had  put  far  away  every  ambition  and  plan  for 
the  "come  back."     I  was  a  sort  of  animated  corpse. 

Not  until  I  stood  at  the  door  of  Frank's  cell  and  he 
put  out  his  hand  and  looked  down  at  me  did  a  tremor 
of  emotion  seize  me.  My  brother  started  to  speak. 
His  words  were  muffled  and  indistinct.  He  held  my 
hand. 

"For  God's  sake,  Al,  let  her  be  on  the  square  from 
now  on!"  It  came  out  blurting,  anxious,  pleading. 
An  overpowering  tide  of  remorse  swept  over  me.  I'd 
have  given  the  soul  out  of  my  body  to  have  changed 
places  with  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Practice  of  law;  invitation  from  O.  Henry;  visit  to  Roosevelt;  citizenship 
rights  restored;  with  O.  Henry  in  New  York;  the  writer  as  guide. 

It  was  on  the  square  with  me.  I  went  back  to 
Oklahoma  and  took  up  the  practice  of  law.  After  a 
year  of  temptation,  hardship  and  starving  in  a  land 
of  plenty  I  began  to  make  good.  One  case  followed 
another.   I  had  a  few  big  successes. 

Several  years  passed.  I  had  all  but  forgotten  Bill 
Porter.  One  morning  a  big,  square  envelope  came 
through  the  mails.  The  moment  I  glanced  at  that 
clear,  fine  handwriting  something  seemed  to  reach  into 
me  and  grab  me  by  the  heart. 

I  felt  a  bubbling  happiness  singing  as  it  had  not  in 
years.  I  could  hear  the  whispering  music  of  Bill 
Porter's  voice  lisping  across  the  continent. 

That  letter  came  early  in  1905.  Porter  urged  me  to 
write.  The  old  ambition  flared  up.  I  started  again  on 
the  "Night  Riders."  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  long 
correspondence.  And  then  came  a  letter  : 

**Algie  Jennings,  The  West,  Dear  Al:  Got  your 
message  all  right.  Hope  you'll  follow  it  soon.  Well, 
as  I  had  nothing  to  do,  I  thought  I  would  write  you  a 
letter  and  as  I  have  nothing  to  say  I  will  now  close 
(joke)." 

The  letter  rambled  through  four  delicious  pages  of 


270         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

whimsicality,  each  urging  me  in  a  different  vein  to 
visit  Xew  York.  When  I  finished  it  I  started  to  pack 
my  trunk. 

Bill  Porter  was  already  a  celebrity  in  New  York. 
He  was  O.  Henry,  the  man  endeared  to  a  million 
hearts  for  his  stories  in  "The  Four  Million,"  *'The 
Voice  of  the  City,"  and  four  other  equally  famous 
collections.  The  thought  of  visiting  this  glorified  Bill 
thrilled  me. 

But  I  had  another  motive  in  making  the  trip.  I 
was  going  to  make  a  stop-over  in  Washington.  I 
decided  to  call  on  Theodore  Roosevelt  at  the  White 
House.  I  wanted  a  full  and  free  pardon.  I  wanted 
to  be  restored  to  citizenship. 

No  triumph  in  the  courtroom  had  ever  dulled  my 
pride  on  this  score.  Every  time  I  passed  an  election 
booth  and  saw  other  men  casting  their  ballots  I  was 
stung  with  humiliation. 

Since  my  release  from  Leavenworth  I  had  worked 
incessantly  toward  regaining  my  rights.  The  biggest 
Republican  in  Oklahoma  had  spoken  for  me.  I  de- 
cided to  make  my  plea  personally  to  the  greatest  of 
them  all.  Sheer  gall  won  me  that  audience — unbiased 
fairness  on  the  part  of  the  President  made  the  mission 
a  success. 

John  Abernathy  was  United  States  marshal  in 
Oklahoma.  He  was  a  hunter.  When  Roosevelt  had 
come  to  the  State  Abernathy  was  his  wolf-catcher. 
Between  the  two  men  there  was  a  deep,  sincere  affec- 
tion. Abernathy  was  a  friend  of  mine.  He  agreed  to 
make  the  trip  and  present  my  case  to  President 
Roosevelt. 


I  WITH  O.  HENRY  271 

We  had  managed  to  get  ourselves  into  the  Cabinet 
room.  Five  or  six  men  were  standing  around  filling 
up  the  moments  of  waiting  wdth  lusty  chatter.  Only 
one  of  them  I  recognized — Joe  Cannon.  Abernathy 
and  I  stood  in  one  corner,  as  futile  and  helpless  as 
two  little  buttermilk  calves  trying  to  find  shelter  from 
the  rain. 

I  kept  my  glance  fastened  on  a  door.  "He'll  come 
through  that  one,"  I  thought.  But  when  the  door  shot 
open  with  a  vigorous  push  and  the  Great  Man  came 
swinging  in,  the  shock  of  excited  emotion  bewildered 
me. 

Roosevelt's  presence  seemed  to  tingle  through  the 
room  as  though  a  vivid  current  of  electricity  were 
suddenly  conducted  from  one  to  another.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him.  He  looked  as  though 
he  had  come  up  from  a  stimulating  swim,  as  though 
every  drop  of  blood  throbbed  with  eager  health. 

The  quivering  exuberance  of  youth  met  the  rugged 
strength  of  maturity  in  the  abounding  personality 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  Cabinet  room.  He  saw 
every  man  at  a  glance.  He  ignored  practically  all  but 
Abernathy. 

"Hello,  John!"  The  tense  hand  reached  out.  "How 
jare  the  wolves  down  in  Oklahoma?"  He  swept 
around.  Roosevelt  didn't  walk  or  step ;  there  was  too 
much  spontaneity,  too  much  vitality  in  every  gesture 
for  such  prosy  motions.  "This,  gentlemen,  is  my 
United  States  marshal,  John  Abernathy  of  Okla- 
homa." 

"Mr.  President,  this  is  mjr  friend,  Al  Jennings," 
the  wolf -catcher  replied. 


272    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

Roosevelt's  quick,  boring  eyes  turned  on  me.  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you  sir.  I  know  what  you  want.  I'm  a 
very  busy  man.   I'll  have  to  see  you  later." 

"Mr.  President,"  the  words  catapulted  out  of  my 
mouth,  *'I'U  never  get  in  here  again.  My  business  is 
more  important  to  me  than  your  Cabinet  meeting.  I 
want  to  be  a  citizen  of  the  United  States  again." 

The  snapping  light  of  humor  came  into  the  eyes, 
and  at  once  Roosevelt  seemed  to  me  to  have  the 
shrewdest,  kindest,  most  tolerant  expression  I  had 
ever  seen.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  a  whimsically 
measured  aj)praisement  of  me. 

''I  think  you're  right,  sir.  Citizenship  is  greater  in 
this  country  of  ours  than  a  Cabinet  meeting."  He 
turned  to  the  men.  "Gentlemen,  excuse  me  a  moment. 
You'll  have  to  wait." 

In  the  private  room  near  where  the  Cabinet  met 
Roosevelt  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  desk.  "I  want  to  know," 
he  shot  out  abruptly,  "if  you  were  guilty  of  the  crime 
you  went  to  prison  for." 
"No,  sir." 

"You  were  not  there  then?" 

"I  was  there,  I  held  up  the  train  and  robbed  the 
passengers."  The  relentlessly  honest  eyes  never  took 
their  glance  from  mine.  "But  I  did  not  rob  the 
United  States  mail,  and  that's  what  I  was  convicted 
for." 

"That's  a  distinction  without  a  difference."  The 
words  were  snapped  out  with  incisive  clearness. 

"It's  the  truth,  however,  I'll  tell  you  nothing,  Mr. 
President,  but  the  truth." 

"Abernathy  and  Frank  Frans  have  assured  me  you 


I  WITH  O.  HENRY  278 

I 

would  tell  only  the  truth.  I  have  studied  your  case. 
I  am  going  to  give  you  a  full  and  free  pardon.  I 
want  you  to  be  worthy  of  it." 

It  would  have  been  ended  then.  But  the  devil  of 
perversity  that  had  so  often  loosened  my  tongue 
whisked  me  to  the  absurd  folly  of  replying.  I  had 
no  sense  of  the  proprieties. 

*'Mr.  President,  the  court  that  sentenced  me  was 
more  guilty  of  violating  the  law  than  I  was.  Judge 
Hosea  Townsend  won  the  verdict  from  the  jury  by 
trickery." 

If  I  had  suddenly  gone  up  and  slapped  his  face, 
Roosevelt  would  not  have  sprung  down  with  more 
flashing  indignation.  A  red  flurry  of  anger  scooted 
across  his  face.  He  scowled  down  at  me,  the  even 
teeth  showing.  I  thought  he  was  going  to  strike  me. 
I  had  said  too  much.  I'd  have  given  an  eye  to  own 
the  words  again. 

"You  have  brought  charges  against  one  of  my 
appointees."  His  voice  was  even  and  quiet.  "You 
will  have  to  substantiate  this." 

I  thought  the  pardon  was  lost.  I  told  him  the  facts. 

Ten  jurors  had  testified  under  oath  that  Marshal 
Hammer  of  the  Southern  District  of  Indian  Territory 
had  come  into  the  jury  room  when  they  were  de- 
liberating the  evidence  in  my  case  and  he  had  told 
them  Judge  Townsend  would  give  me  the  lightest 
sentence  under  the  law  if  they  would  return  a  verdict 
of  guilty.  Under  the  impression  that  I  would  be 
given  a  year,  they  voted  me  guilty.  The  next  morning 
Townsend  sentenced  me  for  life  to  the  Ohio  peniten- 
tiary. 


274         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

My  brother  Jolin  had  secured  these  affidavits.  They 
were  on  file  in  the  attorney  general's  office.  I  told 
the  President  this. 

He  never  said  a  word,  but  went  to  the  door  and 
gave  some  hasty  order.  Then  he  came  back,  walking 
furiously  up  and  down  the  room,  holding  himself  stiff 
and  clenched. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  feel  the  vibrating 
anger  in  his  mind.  Some  word  came  back  from  the 
outer  room. 

"You  are  a  truth-teller,"  Koosevelt  turned  to  me, 
**The  pardon  is  yours.  Be  worthy  of  it.  I  wish  you 
good  luck." 

He  seemed  borne  down  by  suppressed  emotion.  He 
offered  me  his  hand.  I  was  so  touched  I  could  scarcely 
mumble  my  thanks.  A  free  man  and  a  citizen,  I 
landed  in  New  York  to  meet  Bill  Porter. 

I  had  counted  too  much  on  Bill  Porter's  fame.  I 
knew  that  New  York  was  a  big  place,  but  I  had  an 
idea  that  Porter  would  tower  above  the  crowd  like 
a  blond  Hercules  in  a  citv  of  dwarfs. 

Abernathy  and  I  had  rollicked  along  from  Wash- 
ington to  New  York.  When  the  boat  swung  down  the 
Hudson  we  didn't  know  whether  we  were  en  route 
to  Liverpool  or  Angel  Island.  But  we  did  know  that 
we  were  looking  for  one  Bill  Porter.  I  had  lost  the 
letter  giving  me  his  address. 

We  wandered  up  one  street  and  down  another,  a 
queer-looking  pair  with  our  wide  fedora  hats.  Every 
now  and  then  I  made  bold  and  plucked  the  sleeve  of 
some  man,  woman  or  child.  "Hey,  pard,  can  you  tell 
me  where  Bill  Porter  lives?"   They  stared  coldly  and 


WITH  O.  HENRY  275 

passed  on.  I  heard  one  young  fellow  titter,  "The 
poor  babes  from  the  woods." 

We  couldn't  find  Bill. 

But  we  were  in  an  irrepressibly  happy  mood.  With 
not  the  slightest  idea  how  we  got  there  we  landed  at 
the  Breslin  Hotel.  We  began  to  treat  everybody  at 
the  bar. 

The  whole  crowd  knew  the  Outlaw  and  the  Wolf- 
Catcher  were  in  town. 

''By  golly,  we  haven't  found  Bill."  Abernathy 
smashed  his  glass  down  on  the  counter. 

"Bill  who?"  the  bartender  asked. 

"Bill  Porter.  Know  him,  greatest  man  in  New 
York?" 

"Sure,  know  them  all." 

"Let's  telephone  to  the  President  and  ask  him 
where  this  fellow  lives.  He's  a  good  sport;  he'll  send 
us  a  pilot."  Abemathy's  "hunch"  gave  me  a  better 
one.  Dr.  Alex  Lambert,  physician  to  Roosevelt,  had 
shown  us  many  courtesies.  He  lived  in  New  York. 
We  decided  to  use  liim  as  our  guide  if  we  could  find 
him. 

I  remembered  that  Porter  lived  near  Gramercy 
Park.  I  phoned  to  the  doctor  and  with  the  utmost 
formality  asked  directions  to  this  district.  The 
absurdity  of  the  question  didn't  seem  to  amaze  him. 
He  went  into  elaborate  details. 

Arm  in  arm,  Abernathy  and  I  sauntered  to  the 
park  and  with  the  most  painful  dignity  went  iii)  the 
steps  of  every  house  and  rang  the  bell,  inquiring  for 
Bill  Porter.  Not  a  soul  had  ever  heard  of  him.  Some- 
how or  other  we  strayed  into  the  Players'  Club.    The 


276    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

flunkies  didn't  like  the  cut  of  our  clothes.  We  had  to 
bribe  them  before  they  would  admit  us. 

"Where  is  Mr.  William  Sydney  Porter,  the 
writer?"  I  asked  one  of  them. 

"Didn't  know;  never  heard  of  him.  Ask  him  over 
there.  He  knows  even  the  small  fry.  He's  Bob 
Davis." 

The  chunky  little  fellow  with  his  ample,  humorous 
face  and  his  keen  gray  eyes,  was  standing  at  the  door 
of  a  big  meeting  room.  I  went  up  to  him. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  Bill  Porter?" 

"jSTever  heard  of  the  gentleman."  He  didn't  even 
shift  his  glance  toward  me.  "My  circle  embraces  only 
writers,  waiters  and  policemen." 

And  then  I  remembered  who  it  was  I  was  looking 
for. 

"Oh,  thank  you."  I  tried  to  make  my  voice  very 
casual.  "Do  you  happen  to  know  a  man  by  the  name 
of  O.  Henry?"  The  little  fellow's  face  lit  up  like  an 
arc  lamp.  His  hand  swooped  down  on  mine.  "Do  I? 
I  should  say  so.  Do  you?" 

"Me!"  I  fairly  screamed  at  him.  "Hell,  yes,  he's 
an  old  pal  of  mine." 

"So?  What  part  of  the  West  does  he  come  from?" 
The  editor's  scrutiny  took  in  even  the  freckles  on  my 
hand.  Porter  had  them  guessing  already.  They  would 
not  learn  his  secret  from  me.  For  a  moment  I  did 
not  answer. 

"He's  from  the  South,"  I  said  finally.  "Do  you 
know  where  I  can  find  him?" 

"Ring  up  the  Caledonia  Hotel,  28  West  Twenty- 
sixth  Street" 


WITH  O.  HENRY  277 

Porter  was  found  at  last. 

**Is  that  you,  colonel?"  The  same  old  rich,  sus- 
penseful  flavor  in  the  whispering  voice.  "I'll  be  with 
you  anon.  God  bless  you." 

In  a  very  short  "anon"  in  came  the  immaculate, 
flawless  Bill  as  though  something  adventurous  and 
exciting  had  just  happened  to  him  or  were  just  about 
to  happen.  He  wore  a  handsome  gray  suit,  with  a 
rich  blue  tie,  the  everlasting  glove  and  cane  in  his 
right  hand. 

"Hey,  Bill,  why  don't  you  carry  a  forty-five  instead 
of  that  trinket?" 

"Colonel,  the  forty-five  is  not  fashionable  just  now. 
And  there  are  folks  in  Manhattan  who  object  to  the 
custom,  notably  the  Legislature." 

Just  as  though  it  had  been  five  minutes  since  I  had 
spoken  to  him  instead  of  five  years!  With  all  his 
warm,  fine-tempered  affection,  he  stood  silent  and 
searched  my  face. 

"It's  you,  colonel.  Ain't  spoiled,  are  you?" 

We  sat  down  to  a  table,  ordered  a  drink,  forgot  to 
drink  it  and  sat  there  shaking  each  other's  hand  and 
nodding  to  each  other  like  a  pair  of  mutes. 

"How  are  Hans  and  Fritz?"  Porter's  voice  was 
charged  with  feeling.  Yet  the  twins  were  but  a  pair 
of  prison  kittens  born  and  raised  in  the  post-office. 

Like  a  pair  of  farmer  boys  who  had  grown  up  to- 
gether, ducked  in  the  same  creek  and  gone  to  the 
little  school  on  Ball  Knob,  we  sat  back  swapping 
reminiscences  of  the  hated,  horror-haunted  O.  P. 

"It's  good  you've  been  there',  colonel.  It's  the 
proper  vestibule  to  this  City  of  Damned  Souls.   The 


278    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

crooks  there  are  straight  compared  to  the  business 
thieves  here.  If  you've  got  $2  on  you,  invest  it  now 
or  they'll  take  it  away  from  you  before  morning." 

It  was  midnight  when  we  started  down  to  the  old 
Hoffman  House  for  a  farewell  toast.  We  were  to 
meet  early  next  morning  for  our  first  survey  of  the 
little  village.  Abernathy  and  I  were  up  at  six.  Porter 
came  over  at  eleven.  The  first  feature  on  his  enter- 
tainment program  was  a  joy  ride  on  a  * 'rubberneck 
wagon." 

"You'll  get  a  swdft,  fleeting  glimpse  of  this  Bagdad 
and  its  million  mysteries.  You'll  see  the  princess  in 
disguise  glide  past  the  street  corners  evading  evil 
genii;  meeting  with  grand  viziers.  Keep  your  eyes 
open." 

Abernathy,  Porter  and  I  were  the  only  passengers. 
In  a  raucous  sing-song  the  guide  shouted.  "To  your 
right,  gentlemen,  is  the  home  of  Sheridan  Land,"  or 
some  such  cognomen.  "And  further  down  to  your 
left  is  the  tomb  of  Grant." 

Porter  fidgeted.  He  got  up  and  handed  the  cicerone 
a  $2  bill.  "Keep  your  tongue  in  your  cheek,"  he  said 
impressively.  "We  are  neither  entomologists  inter- 
ested in  gold  bugs  nor  antiquarians  hob-nobbing  with 
the  dead.  We  are  children  of  Bacchus.  Lead  us  to 
the  curb." 

It  was  a  cold,  raw  day.  Cicerone,  wolf-catcher,  out- 
law, genius,  we  took  many  side  trips  to  the  haunts  of 
our  father.  The  driver  became  recldess  and  jammed 
into  a  street  car.  For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  we 
would  all  be  "pinched."  Abernathy  and  I  wanted  to 
"mix  it  with  the  cop." 


WITH  O.  HENRY  279 

"Restrain  yourselves,  gentlemen.  I  will  straighten 
the  legal  tangle."  With  commanding  elegance,  Porter 
stepped  down,  threw  open  his  coat  and  showed  some 
sort  of  star.  The  policeman  apologized.  It  seemed  a 
miracle  to  us. 

"He  is  the  magician  of  Bagdad,"  I  whispered  to 
Abemathy.  In  the  next  three  weeks  he  proved  it. 
Bill  Porter  waved  his  hand  and  his  "Bagdad  on  the 
Subway"  yielded  its  million  mysteries  to  the  touch. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Episodes  of  city  nights;    feeding  the   hungry;    Marae   and    Sue;    suicide 

of  Sadie. 

Night  was  the  revealing  hour  for  the  magician  of 
Bagdad.  When  the  million  lights  flashed  and  throngs 
of  men  and  women  crowded  the  thoroughfares  in  long, 
undulating  lines  like  moving,  black  snakes,  Bill  Porter 
came  into  his  own. 

He  owned  the  city,  its  people  were  his  subjects. 
He  went  into  their  midst,  turning  upon  them  the 
shrewd  microscope  of  his  gleaming  understanding. 
Sham,  paltry  deceit,  flimsy  pose,  were  blown  away  as 
veils  before  a  determined  wind.  The  souls  stood  forth, 
naked  and  pathetic.  The  wizard  had  his  way. 

At  every  corner,  adventure  waited  on  his  coming. 
A  young  girl  would  skim  stealthily  around  the  corner, 
or  an  old  "win"  would  crouch  in  a  doorway.  Here 
were  mysteries  for  Porter  to  solve.  He  did  not  stand 
afar  and  speculate.  He  always  made  friends  with  his 
subjects. 

He  learned  their  secrets,  their  hopes,  their  disap.* 
pointments.  He  clasped  the  hand  of  Soapy,  the  bum, 
and  Dulcie  herself  told  him  why  she  went  totally 
bankrupt  on  six  dollars  a  week.  New  York  was  an 
enchanted  labyrinth,  yielding  at  every  twist  the  thrill 
of  the  unexpected — the  wonderful. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  281 

Into  this  kingdom  of  his,  Bill  Porter  introduced  me. 

Jaunty,  whimsical,  light-hearted,  he  came  for  me 
one  of  the  first  nights  of  my  visit.  He  wore  a  little 
Cecil  Brunner  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  With  a  sheepish 
wink,  he  pulled  another  from  his  pocket. 

"Colonel,  I  have  bought  you  a  disguise.  Wear  this 
and  they  will  not  know  you  are  from  the  West." 

*'Damn  it,  I  don't  want  the  garnishings."  But  when 
Bill  had  a  notion  he  carried  it  out.  The  pink  bud  w^as 
fastened  to  my  coat.  "I've  noticed  that  the  bulls  look 
at  you  with  a  too  favorable  eye.  This  token  will  divert 
suspicion  from  us." 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"Everywhere  and  nowhere.  We  may  find  ourselves 
in  Hell's  Kitchen  or  we  may  land  in  Heaven's  Ves- 
tibule. Prepare  yourself  for  thrills  and  perils.  We 
go  where  the  magnet  draweth." 

It  w^as  nearing  midnight.  We  started  down  Fifth 
Avenue  and  were  sauntering  along  somewhere  be- 
tween Twenty-fifth  and  Twenty-sixth.  Dozens  of 
women  with  white,  garish  faces  had  flitted  by. 

"Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,"  Porter  whispered. 
"There  are  but  two  rocks  in  their  courses — the  cops 
and  their  landladies.  Battered  and  storm-tossed, 
aren't  they?  They  haunt  me." 

Out  from  the  shadow  came  a  ragged  wisp  of  a  girl. 
She  looked  about  17. 

"She's  been  skimming  the  tranquil  bogs  of  country 
life." 

"Aw,  shucks,  she's  an  old  timer." 

"First  trip,"  Porter  nudged  me.  She  hasn't  learned 
how  to  steer  her  bark  in  the  deeps  of  city  life  yet." 


282    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

''That's  her  game.  She's  just  flying  that  sail  for 
effect." 

"Xo,  you're  mistaken.  You  investigate  and  we'll 
see  who's  correct.  I'll  stand  here  and  hold  the  horses." 
Porter  had  a  way  of  pulling  things  out  of  the  past 
and  snapping  them  at  me. 

As  we  came  up,  the  girl  dodged  into  a  doorway, 
making  a  pretense  of  tying  her  shoe.  She  looked  up 
at  me,  fright  darting  in  her  wide,  young  eyes.  "You're 
a  plainclothes  man?"  Her  voice  was  low  but  it  shrilled 
in  her  fear. 

"Please  don't  take  me  in.   I  never  did  this  before." 

"I'm  not  a  policeman,  but  I'd  like  to  introduce  you 
to  a  friend  of  mine." 

Bill  came  over.  "You've  frightened  the  lady.  Ask 
her  if  she  would  like  to  dine  with  us." 

More  frightened  than  before,  the  girl  drew  back. 
"I  dare  not  go  with  you!" 

"You  dare  go  anywhere  with  us."  Porter  addressed 
her  as  though  she  were  truly  the  princess  and  he  the 
Knight  Errant. 

There  was  nothing  personal  in  his  interest.  He  had 
one  indomitable  passion — ^he  wished  to  discover  the 
secret  and  hidden  things  in  the  characters  of  the  men 
and  women  about  him.  He  wanted  no  second-hand  or 
expurgated  versions.  He  was  a  scientist  and  the 
quivering  heart  of  humanity  was  the  one  absorbing 
subject  under  his  scrutiny. 

We  went  to  Mouquin's.  The  little,  thin,  white 
creature  had  never  been  there  before.  Her  eyes  were 
luminous  with  excitement.  Porter  made  her  feel  so 
much  at  ease,  it  disconcerted  me  a  trifle.  I  wanted  the 


WITH  O.  HENRY  283 

girl  to  know  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  greatness. 

"He's  a  great  writer,"  I  whispered  to  her.  Porter 
turned  a  withering  sneer  at  me.  "I'm  nothing  of  the 
sort,"  he  contradicted.  "Oh,  but  I  believe  it,"  she 
said.  "I'd  like  to  see  what  you  write.  Is  it  about 
wonderful  people  and  money  and  everything  grand?" 

"Yes,"  Porter  answered.  "It's  about  girls  like  you 
and  all  the  strange  things  that  happen  to  you." 

"But  my  life  isn't  fine.  It's  just  mean  and  scraping 
and  hungry,  and  fine  things  never  happened  to  me 
until  tonight.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  it's  been 
the  same." 

Porter  had  started  her  on  the  revelation.  He  was 
correct.  She  was  but  a  little  country  girl.  She  had 
tired  of  the  monotony  and  came  to  life. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  her.  I  couldn't 
see  a  story  there.  The  only  spark  she  showed  was 
when  the  dinner  came  and  then  a  look  of  inspired 
joyousness  lighted  her  face.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
Porter  must  surely  be  disappointed. 

"When  I  see  a  shipwreck,  I  like  to  know  what 
caused  the  disaster,"  he  said. 

"Well,  what  did  you  make  of  that  investigation?" 

"Nothing  but  the  glow  that  wrapped  her  face  when 
the  soup  came !  That's  the  story." 

"What's  behind  that  look  of  rapture?  Why  should 
any  girl's  face  glow  at  the  prospect  of  a  plate  of  soup 
in  this  city,  where  enough  food  to  feed  a  dozen  armies 
is  wasted  every  night?  Yes,  it's  more  of  a  story  than 
will  ever  be  written!" 

Each  one  that  he  met  yielded  a  treasure  to  him. 
Into  the  honkatonks,  the  dance  halls,  the  basement 


284         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

cafes  he  took  me.  The  same  indomitable  purposes 
guided  him.  No  wonder  that  New  York  threw  off  its 
disguise  before  the  Peerless  Midnight  Investigator. 

"I  scent  an  idea  tonight,  colonel.  Let  us  go  forth 
and  track  it  down."  It  was  another  evening  and  I 
had  dined  with  him  at  the  Caledonia  Hotel. 

We  started  doTsu  Sixth  Avenue.  The  rain  splashed 
sideways  and  down  ways.  Puny  lights  flickered  up 
from  basement  doors.  The  mingled  odor  of  stale  beer, 
cabbage  and  beans  simmered  up.  We  went  down  into 
many  of  these  paltry  halls,  with  the  sawdust  on  the 
floor  and  the  chipped  salt  cellars  and  the  scratched  up, 
bare  tables. 

"It's  not  here.  Let  us  go  to  O'Reilly's.  I  don't  like 
the  fragrance  of  these  dago  joints."  At  Twenty- 
second  street  Porter  pulled  down  his  umbrella.  "We'll 
find  it  in  here." 

At  the  bar  w^ere  a  score  of  men.  The  tables  here 
and  there  were  but  shelves  for  the  elbows  of  gaudily 
dressed,  cheaply  jeweled  women. 

We  took  a  vacant  table.  As  Porter  sat  dowTi  every 
woman  in  the  room  sent  an  admiring  glance  at  him. 

"For  God's  sake.  Bill,  you  won't  eat  in  this  stench, 
will  you?" 

"Just  beer  and  a  sandwich.  Look  over  there, 
colonel.   I  see  my  idea." 

In  one  corner  sat  two  girls,  pretty,  shabby,  genteel, 
the  stark,  piercing  glare  of  hunger  in  their  eyes. 
Porter  beckoned  to  them. 

The  girls  came  over  and  sat  at  our  table.  It  was 
the  cheapest  kind  of  a  dance  hall  in  this  basement 
under  the  saloon.    A  fellow  with  an  accordion  was 


WITH  O.  HENRY  285 

pounding  a  tune  with  an  old  rattle-bang  piano;  a  few 
tawdrj'-looking  couples  moved  with  grotesque  rhythm 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  At  the  tables  about  a  score 
of  men  sat  erect  and  stupid — some  of  them  half  drunk ; 
others  bawling  out  harsh  snatches  of  songs.  The  noisy 
guffaw  of  the  place  was  more  disturbing  than  the 
reeking  exhalation  of  its  breath. 

Porter  handed  the  dirty  scrap  of  paper  that  passed 
as  a  menu  to  the  girls.  Their  eyes  seemed  to  pounce 
on  it.  One  of  them  was  rather  gracefully  built,  but  so 
thin  I  had  the  odd  feeling  that  she  might  break  at  any 
moment  like  an  egg  shell.  She  tried  to  scan  the  card 
indifferently,  but  her  cavernous  eyes,  their  black 
accentuated  by  the  daubs  of  rouge  on  the  transparent 
cheeks,  were  burning  with  eagerness.  She  caught  me 
looking  at  her  and  turned  to  the  rather  short,  fair- 
haired  girl  at  her  side. 

"Suppose  you  order,  Mame."  There  was  no  pre- 
tense to  Mame.  She  was  hungry  and  she  spotted  a 
chance  to  eat.  "Say,  Mister,"  she  leaned  toward 
Porter,  "can  I  order  what  I  want?" 

"I  don't  think  you  better.  You  see,  ladies,  I  haven't 
the  price."  He  ordered  four  beers. 

I  couldn't  follow  the  drift  of  this  experiment. 
Porter  had  picked  out  these  two  from  the  dozens  of 
tell-tale  painted  faces.  He  knew  his  magic  circle.  But 
I  didn't  like  the  bore  of  hungry  eyes.  JNIame  was 
absorbed  in  watching  a  blowsy,  puffy-cheeked  woman 
amiably  gathering  in  drippy  spoonfuls  of  cabbage.  It 
bothered  me.   I  slipped  my  purse  to  Porter. 

"My  God,  Bill,  buy  them  a  feed."  He  sneaked  it 
back  to  me. 


286         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"Wait.  There's  a  story  here."  He  paid  the  bill. 
It  was  about  20  cents.  He  spoke  a  moment  to  the 
manager.  Whatever  he  wanted,  the  manager  was 
ready  to  give. 

"Would  you  ladies  like  to  come  out  and  get  a  square 
meal?"  Mame  looked  nervously  about  the  room.  Sue 
stood  up.  "Thank  you,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  quite 
agreeable." 

We  started  toward  the  Caledonia  Hotel,  where 
Porter  had  his  study.  "We're  making  a  mistake,  Sue. 
We'll  all  get  pinched.  The  instant  we  step  into  a  hash 
house  with  these  gents,  the  bulls '11  nab  us.  We  better 
beat  it.  We're  makin'  an  awful  mistake." 

"We're  nuthin'  but  mistakes  anyhow.  If  there's  a 
chance  to  eat  I'm  gonna  take  it."  Sue's  talk  'was  a 
curious  blend  of  dignity,  bitterness  and  slang. 

"You're  making  no  mistake." 

Porter  led  the  way  at  a  quick  pace.  "Where  we  are 
going  the  foot  of  a  bull  has  never  thumped." 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  we  reached  the  hotel. 
Porter  ordered  a  beefsteak,  potatoes,  coffee,  and  a 
crab  salad.  He  served  it  on  the  table  where  so  many 
of  his  masterpieces  were  written.  In  that  outlandish 
situation,  with  Mame  sitting  on  a  box.  Sue  in  an  easy 
chair,  and  Porter  with  a  towel  over  his  arm  like  a 
waiter  serving  us,  one  of  those  stories  came  into  being 
that  morning. 

"Do  you  make  much  coin  ?"  When  he  talked  to  them 
he  was  one  of  them.  He  adopted  their  language  and 
their  thought. 

"Ain't  nuthin'  to  be  made." 

Mame  was  stowing  in  the  beefsteak  and  swallowing 


WITH  O.  HENRY  28T 

it  with  scarcely  a  pause.  "All  we  can  git  is  enough  to 
pay  two  dollars  a  week  for  a  room.  An'  if  we're  lucky 
we  eat  and  if  we  ain't  we  starve,  'cept  we  meet  sporty 
gents  like  yer selves." 

"You  don't  know  wliat  it  is  to  be  hungry,"  Sue 
added  quietly.  She  was  ravenously  hungry,  and  it  was 
with  an  obvious  jerk  of  her  will  that  she  kept  herself 
from  the  greedy  quickness  of  JNIame.  "You  ain't  suf- 
fered as  we  have." 

"I  guess  we  ain't."  Bill  winked  at  me.  "It's  kind  o* 
hard  to  get  a  footing  here,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  you  guessed  it  that  time.  Sure  is.  If  you 
come  through  with  yer  skin,  you're  lucky.  And  if 
you're  soft,  you  die.''  Sue  sat  back  and  looked  at  her 
long  white  hands. 

"That's  what  Sadie  done.  Her  and  me  come 
from  Vermont  together.  We  thought  we  could  sing. 
We  got  a  place  in  the  chorus  and  for  a  while  we  done 
fine.  Then  the  company  laid  off  and  it  came  summer 
and  there  was  nuthin'  we  could  do. 

"We  couldn't  get  work  anywhere  and  we  were 
hungry  everlastin'.  Poor  Sadie  kept  a-moonin'  around 
and  thinkin'  about  Bob  Parkins  and  prayin'  he'd  turn 
up  for  her  like  he  said  he  would.  She  was  plumb 
nutty  about  him  and  when  we  left  he  sed  he'd  come 
and  git  her  if  she  didn't  make  good. 

"After  a  while  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer  and  I 
went  out  to  git  some  grub.  I  didn't  give  a  darn  how 
I  got  it.  But  Sadie  wouldn't  come.  She  said  she 
couldn't  break  Bob's  heart.  He  was  bound  to  come. 
I  came  back  in  a  coupla  weeks.  I'd  made  a  penny.  I 
thought  I'd  stake  Sade  to  the  fare  back  home.    She 


288    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

was  gone.  She'd  give  up  hopin'  for  Bob,  and  just 
made  away  with  herself.  Took  the  gas  route  in  that 
very  room  where  we  used  to  stay." 

Porter  was  pouring  out  the  coffee  and  taking  in 
every  word. 

*'I  guess  Bob  never  showed  up,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  he  turned  up  one  day.  Said  he'd  been  lookin' 
high  and  low  for  us.  Been  to  every  boarding  house  in 
the  town  searchin'  for  Sade.  I  hated  to  tell  him.  Gee, 
he  never  said  a  word  for  the  longest  time. 

"Then  he  asked  me  all  about  Sade  and  if  she'd 
carried  on  and  why  she  hadn't  let  him  know.  I  told 
him  everything.  All  he  said  was  'Here,  Sue,  buy 
yerself  some  grub'. 

"He  gave  me  five  dollars  and  me  and  Mame  paid 
the  rent  and  we  been  eatin'  on  it  since.  That  was  a 
week  ago.  I  haven't  seen  Bob  since.  He  was  awful 
cut  up  about  it." 

Sue  talked  on  in  short,  jerky  sentences,  but  Porter 
was  no  longer  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  her. 
Suddenly  he  got  up,  went  over  to  a  small  table  and 
came  back  with  a  copy  of  "Cabbages  and  Kings." 

"You  might  read  this  when  you  get  time  and  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  it." 

The  supper  was  finished.  Porter  seemed  anxious 
to  be  rid  of  us  all.  The  girls  were  quite  pleased  to 
leave.  The  little  one  looked  regretfully  at  the  bread 
and  meat  left  on  the  table. 

"You  got  plenty  for  breakfast!" 

There  was  a  paper  on  the  chair.  I  shoved  the  food 
into  it  and  tied  it  up.  "Take  it  with  you."  Sue  was 
embarrassed. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  289 

"Mame!  For  Gawd's  sake,  ain't  you  greedy  1" 
Mame  laughed. 

*'Ilainy  day  like  to  come  any  time  for  us." 

Porter  was  preoccupied.  He  scarcely  noticed  that 
they  were  gone.  The  idea  had  been  tracked.  It 
possessed  him.  He  already  smelled  the  fragrance  of 
mignonette. 

Sue  had  yielded  her  story  to  the  magician.  It  went 
through  the  delicate  mill  of  his  mind.  It  came  out  in 
the  wistful  realism  of  "The  Furnished  Room." 


v/ 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Quest  for  material;  Pilsner  and  the  Halberdier;  suggestion  of  a  storjr; 
dining  with  editors;  tales  of  train-robberies;  a  mood  of  despair. 

If  Porter  caught  the  Voice  of  the  City  as  no  other 
has;  if  he  reached  the  veins  leading  to  its  heart,  it  is 
because  he  was  an  inveterate  prospector,  forever  hurl- 
ing his  pick  into  the  asphalt.  He  struck  it  rich  in  the 
streets  and  the  restaurants  of  Manhattan.  Running 
through  the  hard-faced  granite  of  its  materialism,  he 
came  upon  the  deep  shaft  of  romance  and  poetry. 

Shot  through  the  humdrum  strata,  the  mellow 
gold  of  humor  and  pathos  glinted  before  his  eyes. 
Xew  York  was  his  Goldfield.  But  his  lucky  strike 
was  muscled  by  Relentless  Purpose,  not  Chance.  Nq 
story-writer  ever  worked  more  persistently  than  O. 
Henry.  Pie  was  the  Insatiable  Explorer. 

The  average  man  adopts  a  profession  or  a  trade. 
In  his  leisure  he  is  glad  to  turn  his  attention  to  other 
hobbies.  With  O.  Henry,  his  work  made  up  the  sum 
total  of  his  life.  The  two  were  inseparable. 

He  could  no  more  help  noticing  and  observing  and 
mentally  stocking  up  than  a  negative  could  avoid 
recording  an  image  when  the  light  strikes  it.  He  had 
a  mind  that  innately  selected  and  recounted  the 
story. 

Sometimes  he  came  upon  the  gold  already  separ*- 


WITH  O.  HENRY  291 

ated,  as  in  the  story  Sue  told  him.  Sometimes  there 
was  but  a  sparkle.  In  fact,  it  was  seldom  that  he  took 
things  as  he  found  them. 

His  gravel  went  through  many  a  wash  before  it 
came  out  O.  Henry's  unalloyed  gold.  What  would 
have  been  but  so  much  crushed  rock  for  another, 
gleamed  with  nugget  dust  for  him.  So  it  was  with 
"the  Halberdier  of  the  Little  Rheinschloss." 

"I'll  introduce  you  to  Pilsner,"  he  said  to  me  one 
night,  when  we  started  out  on  our  rounds.  "You'll 
like  it  better  than  your  coffee  strong  enough  to  float 
your  bandit  bullets." 

We  went  to  a  German  restaurant  on  Broadway. 
We  took  a  little  table  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  In 
one  of  his  stories  O.  Henry  says  that  *'the  proudest 
consummation  of  a  New  Yorker's  ambition  is  to  shake 
hands  with  a  spaghetti  chef  or  to  receive  a  nod  from 
a  Broadway  head  waiter."  That  mark  of  deference 
was  often  his. 

The  Pilsner  was  good,  but  the  thing  of  chief  in- 
terest to  me  was  a  ridiculous  figure  standing  at  the 
landing  of  the  stairs  tricked  out  as  an  ancient  Hal- 
berdier.  I  couldn't  take  my  glance  from  him.  He  had 
the  shiftiest  eyes  and  the  weakest  hands.  The  contrast 
to  his  mighty  coat  of  steel  was  laughable. 

"Look  at  that  weak-kneed  saphead,  Bill.  Picture 
him  as  an  ancient  man-at-arms!"  His  fingers  were 
yellow  with  nicotine  to  the  knuckles. 

Porter  looked  at  him,  sat  back,  finished  his  beer  in 
silence.  "It's  a  good  story."  That  was  all  he  said. 
We  went  home  early  and  both  of  us  were  sober. 
Whenever  this  happened  we  used  to  sit  in  Bill's  room 


292         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

and  talk  until  one  or  two  o'clock.  This  night  it  was 
different. 

"Are  you  sleepy  tonight,  colonel?"  he  said.  "I 
think  I  shall  retire." 

Whenever  his  mind  was  beset  with  an  idea  he  lapsed 
into  this  extremely  formal  manner  of  speaking.  It 
was  bitterly  irritating  to  me.  I  would  leave  in  a  kind 
of  huff  determined  not  to  bother  him  again.  But  I 
knew  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  his  coldness.  He 
was  remote  because  his  thought  had  built  a  barrier 
about  him.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  story 
in  his  mind. 

I  had  an  appointment  with  him  for  noon  time.  I 
decided  not  to  keep  it  unless  he  remembered.  At  about 
10  minutes  after  12  he  called  me  up. 

"You're  late.   I'm  waiting,"  he  said. 

When  I  got  to  his  room  the  big  table  where  he  did 
his  writing  was  littered  with  sheets  of  paper.  All 
over  the  floor  were  scraps  of  paper  covered  with 
writing  in  long  hand. 

"When  I  get  the  returns  on  this  I'll  di\^y  up  with 
you."   Porter  picked  up  a  thick  wad  of  sheets. 

"Why?" 

"It  was  you  that  gave  me  the  thought." 

"You  mean  the  cigarette  fiend  in  the  armor?" 

"Yes;  I've  just  finished  the  yarn." 

He  read  it  to  me.  Just  the  merest  glint  had  come 
to  him  from  that  steel-plated  armor.  The  Halberdier 
himself  would  never  have  recognized  the  gem  Porter's 
genius  had  polished  for  him.  The  story  just  as  it 
stands  today  was  written  by  Porter  some  time  between 
midnight  and  noon. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  293 

And  yet  he  looked  as  fresh  and  rested  as  though  he 
had  slept  ten  hours. 

"Do  you  always  grab  off  an  inspiration  like  that 
and  dash  it  off  without  any  trouble?" 

Porter  opened  a  drawer  in  the  desk.  "Look  at 
those."  He  pointed  to  a  crammed-down  heap  of 
papers  covered  with  his  long  freehand. 

"Sometimes  I  can't  make  the  story  go  and  I  lay  it 
aw^ay  for  a  happier  moment.  There  is  a  lot  of  un- 
finished business  in  there  that  will  have  to  be  trans- 
acted some  day.  I  don't  dash  off  stories.  I'm  always 
thinking  about  them,  and  I  seldom  start  to  write  until 
the  thing  is  finished  in  my  mind.  It  doesn't  take  long 
to  set  it  down." 

I  have  watched  him  sit  with  pencil  poised  some- 
times for  hours,  waiting  for  the  story  to  tell  itself  to 
his  brain. 

O.  Henry  was  a  careful  artist.  He  was  a  slave  to 
the  dictionary.  He  would  pore  over  it,  taking  an  in- 
finite relish  in  the  discovery  of  a  new  twist  to  a  word. 

One  day  he  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  his  back  to 
me.  He  had  been  writing  with  incredible  rapidity,  as 
though  the  words  just  ran  themselves  automatically 
from  his  pen.  Suddenly  he  stopped.  For  half  an  hour 
he  sat  silent,  and  then  he  turned  around,  rather  sur- 
prised to  find  me  still  there. 

"Thirsty,  colonel?   Let's  get  a  drink." 

"Bill,"  my  curiosity  was  up,  "does  your  mind  feel 
a  blank  when  you  sit  there  like  that?"  The  question 
seemed  to  amuse  him. 

"No.  But  I  have  to  reason  out  the  meaning  of 
words." 


294         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

There  was  no  ostentation  in  Porter,  either  in  his 
wi'iting  or  in  his  observations.  I  never  saw  him  making 
notes  in  public,  except  once  in  a  while  he  would  jot  a 
word  down  on  the  corner  of  a  napkin. 

He  didn't  want  other  people  to  know  what  he  was 
thinking  about.  He  didn't  need  to  take  notes,  for  he 
was  not  a  procrastinator.  He  transmuted  his  thoughts 
into  stories  while  the  warm  beat  throbbed  in  them. 

Careless  and  irresponsible  as  he  seemed — almost 
aimless  at  times — I  think  there  was  in  Bill  Porter  a 
purposiveness  that  was  grim  and  so  determined  that 
he  would  allow  no  external  influence  to  interfere  with 
his  plan  of  life. 

I  have  sometimes  felt  that  this  passionate  will  to  be 
himself  at  all  times  made  him  so  aloof  and  reclusive. 
He  sought  companionship  freely  with  strangers,  for 
he  could  dispense  with  their  company  at  will.  He 
wanted  to  live  untrammeled.  And  he  did.  He  was 
incorrigibly  stubborn-minded.  Of  all  the  men  I  have 
ever  known.  Bill  Porter  ran  truest  to  the  natural 
grain. 

As  soon  as  New  York  became  aware  of  O.  Henry's 
lucky  strike,  it  was  ready  vrith  its  meed  of  homage. 
An  eager,  rushing  multitude  sought  him  out.  Doors 
were  flung  wide.  The  man  who  had  but  a  few  years 
before  been  separated  from  his  fellows  could  now 
stand  among  the  proudest,  commanding,  as  he  would, 
their  smiles  and  their  tears.  He  preferred  solitude. 
'Not  because  he  disdained  company — not  that  he  feared 
exposure,  but  because  he  despised  deceit  and  hypoc- 
risy. And  these,  he  felt,  were  the  inevitable  attendants 
of  men  and  women  in  their  social  intercourse. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  295 

"Al,  I  despise  these  literati."  Many  a  tinie  he 
voiced  the  sentiment.  "They  remind  me  of  big 
balloons.  If  one  were  to  puncture  their  pose,  there 
would  be  an  astonished  gasp  as  when  one  sticks  a  pin 
in  the  stretched  rubber.  And  then  they  would  be  no 
more — not  even  a  wrinkled  jfr ace  of  them!'' 

They  could  sue  him  with  invitations.  He  had  no 
time  to  waste.  He  was  not  vain,  and  never  did  he 
consciously  try  to  impress  any  one.  He  was  not  of 
that  righteous  type  that  takes  itself  and  its  beliefs 
with  ponderous  seriousness,  insisting  that  the  world 
hear  them  out  and  then  applaud. 

Bill  Porter  was  too  busy  watching  others  to  take 
much  heed  about  his  own  reflection.  Because  he  was 
eminently  self-sufficient,  he  would  not  allow  circum- 
stances to  set  his  friendships  for  him. 

But  with  the  few  who  were  the  elect  to  him;  who 
knew  him  and  understood  him  he  was  the  droll  and 
beloved  vagabond.  Reticence  would  drop  from  him. 
He  was  in  his  element — the  troubadour  of  old,  the 
sparkle  of  his  gracious  wit  bubbling  through  every 
breath  of  the  heavier  discourse. 

"I  have  a  treat  for  you,  colonel.  Tonight  you  shall 
meet  the  Chosen  Few." 

He  would  tell  me  no  more,  seeming  to  take  a  boyish 
delight  in  my  irritable  suspense.  The  Chosen  Few 
happened  to  be  Richard  Duffy,  Oilman  Hall  and 
Bannister  Merwin.  We  had  dinner  together  at  the 
Hoffman  House. 

It  was  a  treat — for  that  night  I  saw  O.  Henry  as 
he  might  have  been  if  the  buoyant  happiness  that 
seemed  to  be  his  native  disposition  had  not  been 


296    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

deepened  and  saddened  by  the  distressing  humiliation 
of  his  prison  years. 

Porter  handed  me  the  menu.  He  was  a  bit  finicky 
about  his  eating.  "Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  dis- 
tinguished editors,  "the  colonel  will  pick  out  a  surprise 
for  us."  I  think  Porter  considered  me  somewhat 
brazen  because  I  was  not  awed  by  this  presence  of 
the  elite. 

"I  could  order  bacon  broiled  on  the  hickory  coals, 
terrapin,  sour-dough  biscuit  and  coffee  strong  enough 
to  float  the  bidlets — how  would  you  like  it.  Bill?" 

"Don't  endanger  my  future  in  my  chosen  profession 
by  making  me  hit  the  tracks  for  the  West." 

Duffy  and  Hall  looked  at  Porter  as  though  a 
sudden  vision  of  his  portly  figure  galloped  before 
them  on  horseback  and  swinging  a  lariat.  Porter 
caught  the  question  in  their  eyes.  He  was  in  a  tan- 
talizing mood. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  edifying  the  company  with  a 
discourse  on  the  ethics  of  train-robbing,  would  you, 
colonel?"  The  three  guests  sat  up,  tense  with  interest. 
It  was  just  the  setting  I  loved.  It  gave  me  a  big 
bump  of  joy  to  throw  a  shock  into  those  blase  New 
Yorkers. 

Yarn  after  yarn  I  reeled  off  for  their  absorption. 
I  told  them  all  the  funny  incidents  connected  with  the 
stickup  of  the  trains  in  the  Indian  Territory. 

I  made  them  see  the  outlaw,  not  as  a  ruthless  brute, 
but  as  a  human  being  possessed  of  a  somewhat  differ- 
ent bias  or  viewpoint  from  their  own.  Porter  sat 
back,  expansive  and  sedate,  with  his  large  gray  eye 
lighted  with  amusement. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  297 

"Colonel,  I  stood  in  your  shadow  tonight,"  he  said 
to  me  as  we  were  parting  at  the  Caledonia. 

"What  do  you  mean,  BiU?" 

"My  friends  to  whom  I  introduced  you  ignored  me. 
I  was  rather  some  pumpkins  with  Hall  and  Duffy 
until  you  came,  and  tonight  I  w^as  forgotten  by  them. 
Would  you  mind  the  next  time  we  are  together  tell- 
ing them  I  held  the  horses  for  you?" 

"Honest,  Bill,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  would  add  to  my  prestige." 

A  few  days  later  we  were  at  Mouquin's.  I  was 
stringing  out  a  lurid  outlaw  story.  I  stopped  in  the 
middle  and  turned  to  Porter,  as  though  my  memory 
had  slipped  and  I  had  overlooked  an  important  detail. 
"Bill,  you  remember,"  I  said,  "that  was  the  night  you 
held  the  horses."  Duffy  dropped  his  fork,  sending  out 
a  roar  of  laughter.  He  reached  over  and  grabbed 
Porter's  hand.  "By  Jove,  I  always  suspected  you. 
Bill  Porter." 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  colonel,  for  those  kind  words. 
You  have  done  me  a  great  service.  I  sold  two  stories 
this  morning  on  the  strength  of  my  presumed  associa- 
tion with  you,"  Porter  said  a  day  later.  "Those  fellows 
think  now  that  I  really  belonged  to  your  gang.  I 
have  become  a  personage." 

Not  for  worlds,  though,  would  Porter  have  openly 
acknowledged  to  these  men  that  he  had  been  a 
prisoner  in  the  Ohio  penitentiary.  Bob  Davis,  I  am 
certain,  knew  it.  He  practically  admitted  it  to  me. 
Duffy  and  Hall  felt  the  mystery  surrounding  the  man. 

"Colonel,  every  time  I  step  into  a  public  cafe  I 
have  the  horrible  fear  that  some  ex-con  will  come  up 


298         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

and  say  to  me  *Hello,  Bill;  when  did  you  get  out  of 
theO.  P.T 

No  one  ever  did  this.  It  would  have  been  an  in- 
sufferable shock  to  Porter's  pride,  especially  when 
his  success  was  new  to  hiin.  After  all  the  jovial 
warmth  of  that  dinner  at  Mouquin's,  after  all  the 
banter  and  gayety,  the  weight  of  oppressive  sadness 
came  down  upon  him. 

The  memory  of  the  past;  the  troubled  fear  of  the 
future — the  two  together  seemed  ever  to  press  like 
^gantic  forces  against  the  bonny  happiness  of  the 
present  for  Bill  Porter. 

I  was  recklessly  gay.  I  had  taken  plenty  of  the 
"wine  that  boils  when  it  is  cold."  In  the  exuberance 
I  asked  all  the  gentlemen  present  to  be  my  escort 
across  the  river.  Porter  kicked  me  under  the  table, 
turning  on  me  a  straight,  meaningful  look. 

"Colonel,  I  am  the  only  one  that  has  nothing  to  do 
except  yourself.  These  gentlemen  are  editors.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  act  as  your  escort  and  keep  you  from 
walking  off  the  boat.  The  sea  never  gives  up  its  dead." 

"I  didn't  want  those  men  to  be  with  us  in  our  last 
moments,"  he  said  when  we  were  crossing  the  Hudson. 

"Good  God,  Bill,  you  aren't  going  to  jump  over 
and  pull  me  with  you?" 

"No.  But  I  think  I  would  rather  enjoy  it." 

He  had  not  been  shamming  gayety  at  the  dinner. 
When  a  full  tide,  it  had  swept  over  him.  But  there 
was  always  an  undertow  of  shadows  and  whenever  he 
was  alone  it  carried  him  out — often  to  a  bitter  depth 
of  gloomy  depression. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Supper  with  a  star;   frank  criticism;   O.  Henry's  prodigality;   Credit  at 
the   bar;    Sue's   return. 

A  human  prism  he  was — refracting  the  light  in 
seven  different  colors.  But  different  in  this — he  was 
not  predictable.  Reds  and  blues  and  yellows  were  in 
his  moods,  but  sometimes  the  gold  would  predominate 
and  sometimes  the  indigo.  Bill  Porter's  was  a  baffling 
spectrum  of  gay  and  somber  hues. 

These  moods  of  his  were  inscrutable  to  me.  At 
times  he  was  so  aloof  I  could  scarcely  get  a  word 
from  him.  I  would  go  away  seething  with  anger.  And 
in  an  hour  he  would  come  over  vnth  the  gentlest  and 
subtlest  persuasion  to  wheedle  me  into  friendliness. 

"Bill,  you've  got  a  feminine  streak  in  you;  you're 
so  damned  unreliable."  I  meant  it  for  a  stinging 
rebuke. 

Porter  looked  at  me,  putting  on  a  foolish  simper. 
"It  makes  me  quite  interesting  and  enigmatic, 
doesn't  it,  colonel?" 

And  then  he  became  instantly  serious.  "Sometimes 
things  look  so  black  to  me,  Al.  I  don't  see  much  use 
in  anything.  I  can't  bet  on  myself.  Sometimes  I 
want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  one  and  some- 
times I  envy  the  defiance  that  seems  to  win  you  so 
many  friends." 

Porter  could  have  walked  down  Broadway  and  won 


300    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

the  smiling  salute  of  every  celebrity  for  a  mile  had  he 
so  wished.  And  yet  he  made  that  comment  one  day 
because  a  half-dozen  bartenders  had  called  me  by 
name. 

He  had  been  very  busy  getting  out  some  stories.  I 
had  not  seen  him  for  four  days.  I  improved  the  time 
by  striking  up  acquaintance  with  the  elite  of  the  bar- 
rooms. One  evening  I  was  talking  to  the  tender  in  a 
saloon  across  from  the  Flatiron  Building.  Both  my 
listener  and  I  were  excitedly  going  through  the  peril- 
ous joys  of  a  holdup.  I  heard  a  hesitating  cough. 
Porter  was  at  my  elbow. 

"Did  you  find  an  old  friend  in  the  bartender?"  he 
asked  when  we  got  outside. 

"No,  I  just  met  him  yesterday." 

"Well,  I  stood  there  10  minutes  with  a  Sahara 
thirst  on  me  before  he  turned  to  quench  it.  You're 
evidently  more  riches  to  him  than  my  dime. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you,  colonel.  I  went  into 
five  different  saloons.  I  asked  if  a  diminutive  giant 
with  a  demure  face  and  red  hair  had  been  prowling 
about  the  premises.  *Who,  Mr.  Jennings  from  Okla- 
homa?' they  up  and  says,  and  then  they  try  to  point 
out  your  footprints  to  me  on  the  asphalt.  How  do 
you  do  it? 

"You  ought  to  come  here  and  run  for  Mayor.  You'd 
be  elected  sure.  And  then  you  could  appoint  me  your 
secretary.  We'd  be  in  clover." 

Many  hours  later  we  wheeled  around  again  near 
the  Flatiron  Buildmg.  My  hat  was  carried  away  in 
the  tornado  and  then  hurled  down  the  street. 

I  started  to  run  after  it.  Porter's  firm,  strong  hand 


WITH  O.  HENRY  301 

was  on  my  arm.  *'Don't,  colonel.  Some  one  will  bring 
it  to  you.  The  north  wind  is  considerate.  It  pays 
indemnities  on  the  damage  wrought.  It  will  send  a 
porter  to  return  your  headpiece  to  you." 

"Like  hell  it  will." 

A  likely  chance  it  seemed  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  shook  off  his  arm,  determined  to  recover 
my  property,  when  dashing  up  from  nowhere  came 
an  old  man.   * 'Pardon  me,  sir,  is  this  yours?" 

For  the  second  time  in  my  life  I  heard  Bill  Porter 
send  up  that  bubbling,  sonorous  laugh  of  his. 

For  a  moment  I  felt  like  a  person  bewitched. 
"Where  in  thunder  did  that  old  gnome  come  from, 
anyway?" 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  so  particular  about  the 
creature's  origin.  You've  got  your  hat,  haven't  you?" 

It  was  a  night  of  gayety.  "We'll  continue  this  in 
our  next,  colonel.  Come  over  at  noon."  It  was 
Porter's  good  night. 

I  was  ready  for  the  jaunt  promptly  at  12.  "Mr. 
Porter  is  in  his  rooms — go  right  up,"  the  clerk  said. 
I  reached  the  door.  I  could  hear  Bill  stropping  his 
razor.   I  knocked.  He  did  not  answer. 

Mindful  of  the  joyous  buoyancy  of  the  night  before 
I  gave  a  vicious  kick  at  the  door.  He  did  not  come. 

In  a  gale  of  resentment  and  hurt  pride,  I  rushed  to 
my  room  a  block  away. 

"He's  sick  and  tired  of  me  sliding  in  there  night  and 
day,"  I  thought.  "He  wants  to  be  rid  of  me."  I 
grabbed  up  my  suitcase  and  started  dumping  my 
clothes  into  it.  I  planned  to  leave  New  York  that 
afternoon.  I  was  just  jamming  in  the  last  few  collars 


302    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

when  the  door  opened  and  Bill's  ruddy,  understanding 
face  looked  down  at  me, 

"Forgive  me,  colonel,  that  I  have  not  a  sixth  sense. 
I  could  not  distinguish  your  knock  from  any  one 
else's."  Porter  slipped  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 
"Take  this,  Al,  and  let  yourself  in  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night.  You'll  never  find  Bill  Porter's  door  or 
his  time  locked  against  the  salt  of  the  earth." 

More  eloquent  than  the  gift  of  a  dollar  from  a 
Shylock  was  this  tribute  from  the  reserved  Bill  Porter. 

I  was  always  under  the  impression  that  Porter's 
spirit,  unshadowed  by  the  walls  of  the  Ohio  peniten- 
tiary, would  have  been  a  buoyant,  fantastic  incarna- 
tion. He  had  a  robust  philosophy  that  withstood  with- 
out the  tarnish  of  cynicism  the  horrors  of  prison  life. 

Without  these  searing  memories  I  think  the 
debonair  grace  of  youth  that  was  uppermost  in  his 
heart  would  have  been  the  dominant  force  triumphant 
over  the  ordinary  melancholy  of  life. 

*'I  have  accepted  an  invitation  for  you,  colonel." 
He  was  in  one  of  his  gently  sparkling  moods.  "Gkt 
into  your  armor  asinorum,  for  we  fare  forth  to  make 
contest  with  tinsel  and  gauze.  In  other  words  we 
mingle  with  the  proletariat.  We  go  to  see  Margaret 
Anglin  and  Henry  Miller  in  that  superb  and  realistic 
Western  libel,  *The  great  Divide'." 

After  the  play  the  great  actress.  Porter  and  I  and 
one  or  two  others  were  to  have  supper  at  the  Breslin 
Hotel.  I  think  Porter  took  me  there  that  he  might  sit 
back  and  enjoy  my  unabashed  criticisms  to  the  lady's 
face. 

**I  feel  greatly  disappointed  in  you,  Mr.  Porter," 


WITH  O.  HENRY  303 

Margaret  Anglin  said  to  Bill  as  we  took  our  places  at 
the  table. 

"In  what  have  I  failed?" 

"You  promised  to  bring  your  Western  friend — • 
that  terrible  outlaw  Mr.  Jennings — to  criticise  the 
play." 

"Well,  I  have  introduced  him."  He  waved  his  hand 
down  toward  me. 

Miss  Anglin  looked  me  over  with  the  trace  of  a 
smile  in  her  eye. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  can  hardly  associate 
you  with  the  lovely  things  they  say  of  you.  Did  you 
like  the  play?" 

I  told  her  I  didn't.  It  was  unreal.  No  man  of  the 
West  would  shake  dice  for  a  lady  in  distress.  The 
situation  was  unheard  of  and  could  only  occur  in  the 
imagination  of  a  fat-headed  Easterner  who  had  never 
set  his  feet  beyond  the  Hudson. 

Miss  Anglin  laughed  merrily.  "New  York  is  wild 
over  it.   New  York  doesn't  know  any  better." 

Porter  sat  back,  an  expansive  smile  spreading  a 
light  in  his  gray  eyes.  "I  am  inclined  to  agree  with 
our  friend,"  he  offered.  "The  West  is  unacquainted 
with  Manhattan  chivalry."  Afterward  he  kept  prod- 
ding every  one  present  with  his  genial  quips. 

I  never  saw  him  in  a  happier  mood.  The  very  next 
morning  he  was  in  the  depths  of  despondency.  I  w^ent 
over  early  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk 
rigid  and  silent.  I  started  to  tiptoe  out.  I  thought  he 
was  concentrated  in  his  writing. 

"Come  in,  Al."  He  had  a  picture  in  his  hand. 
^That's  Margaret,  colonel.   I  want  you  to  have  the 


304    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

picture.    If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  I  think 
I'd  feel  happy  if  j^ou  would  look  after  her." 

He  seemed  crushed  and  hopeless.  He  went  over  to 
the  window  and  looked  out. 

*'You  know  I  kind  of  like  this  old  dismal  city  of 
dying  souls." 

"What  the  hell  has  that  got  to  do  with  your  kicking 
off?" 

"Nothing,  but  the  jig  is  up.  Colonel,  have  you  the 
price?  Let's  have  a  little  refreshment.  They'll  be  up 
with  a  check  some  time,  I  hope." 

I  did  not  know  the  cause  of  his  sudden  overpower- 
ing dejection,  but  no  drink  could  lighten  it.  The 
light-hearted,  winsome  joyousness  of  the  night  before 
had  vanished.  The  bright  hues  in  the  spectrum  were 
muddled  into  the  drab. 

One  night — a  cold,  raw,  angry  night — Bill  and  I 
were  strolling  along  somewhere  in  the  East  Side. 
"Remember  the  kid  they  electrocuted  at  the  O.  P.?" 
he  said  to  me.  "I  will  show  you  life  tonight  that  is 
more  tragic  than  death." 

Faces  that  were  no  longer  human — ^that  seemed 
scarred  and  blemished  as  though  the  skin  were  a  kind 
of  web-like  scale — dodged  from  alleyways  and  base- 
ments. 

"They  are  the  other  side  of  the  Enchanted  Profile. 
You  don't  see  it  on  our  God.  He  keeps  it  hidden." 

To  Bill,  long  before  he  had  written  the  story  of  that 
name,  the  Enchanted  Profile  was  the  face  on  the 
dollar. 

We  were  turning  a  dingy  corner.  The  sorriest, 
forlornest   slice    of   tatterdemalion   came   shambling 


WITH  O.  HENRY  305 

along.  He  was  sober.  Hunger — if  you've  ever  felt  it, 
you  recognize  in  the  other  fellow's  eyes — stared  out 
from  his  emaciated  face.  "Hello,  pard."  Bill  stepped 
to  his  side  and  slipped  a  bill  into  his  hand.  We  went 
on.  A  moment  later  the  hobo  shuffled  up.  "'Scuse  me, 
mister.  You  made  a  mistake.  You  gave  me  $20." 

"Who  told  you  I  made  a  mistake?"  Porter  pushed 
him.   "Be  off." 

And  the  next  day  he  asked  me  to  walk  four  blocks 
out  of  our  way  to  get  a  drink. 

"We  need  the  exercise.  We're  getting  obese."  I 
noticed  that  the  bartender  greeted  Bill  with  a  familiar 
smile.  At  the  counter  a  big  fat  man  jostled  me,  nearly 
knocking  the  glass  from  my  hand. 

It  made  me  furious.  I  swung  my  fist.  Porter 
caught  my  arm.  "They  don't  mean  anything,  these 
New  York  hogs." 

It  happened  again  and  again.  The  fourth  time 
Porter  asked  me  to  go  there  I  became  curious. 

"What  do  you  like  about  that  rough  joint,  Bill?" 

"I'm  broke,  colonel,  and  the  bartender  knows  me. 
My  credit  there  is  unlimited." 

Broke — yet  he  had  $20  to  throw  away  to  a  bum! 
Porter  had  no  conception  of  money  values.  He  seemed 
to  act  according  to  some  super  standard  of  his  own. 

He  beggared  himself  financially  ^dth  his  spend- 
thrift w^ays,  but  his  whimsical  investments  brought 
him  in  a  rich  store  of  experience  and  satisfaction.  The 
wealth  of  his  self-expression  was  worth  more  to  him 
than  economic  affluence. 

Yet  he  was  not  one  who  bore  amiably  an  empty 
wallet.   He  liked  to  spend.   He  wished  always  to  be 


306         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

the  host.  Often  he  would  say  to  me,  "I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  ordering  this  at  your  expense."  When  the 
meal  was  finished  I  would  look  for  the  check,  picking 
up  the  napkins  and  fussing  about. 

"Cease  your  ostentation,"  he  w^ould  say.  "That  is 
paid  and  forgotten.  Don't  make  such  a  vulgar  display 
of  wealth." 

He  liked  to  spend — but  he  liked  better  to  give  away. 
In  the  book  he  had  given  to  Sue  he  had  slipped  a  $10 
bill.  She  came  back  a  few  days  later  after  the  banquet 
at  the  Caledonia.  I  was  waiting  for  Porter. 

"I've  come  to  bring  this  back.  Your  friend,  Mr. 
Bill,  forgot  to  look  before  he  gave  it  to  me."  Just 
then  Porter  came  in. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Sue."  I  had  forgotten  her 
name  and  was  calling  her  Sophie  and  Sarah  and 
honey.   Porter  doffed  tlie  cap  he  was  wearing. 

"Will  you  come  in?" 

"I  just  come  to  hand  this  back."  Porter  looked  at 
the  note  in  her  hand  as  though  he  considered  himself 
the  victim  of  a  practical  joker. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"It  was  in  the  book  you  give  me." 

"It  does  not  belong  to  me,  Sue.  You  must  have  put 
it  there  and  forgotten." 

The  girl  smiled,  but  into  her  intelligent  black  eyes 
came  a  look  of  gratitude  and  understanding. 

"Forgotten,  Mr.  Bill?  If  you'd  only  handled  as 
few  ten  spots  as  I  have  you  couldn't  no  wise  misplace 
one  without  knowin'  it." 

"It's  yours.  Sue,  for  I  know  it  isn't  mine.  But,  say, 
Sue,  some  day  I  might  be  hard  up  and  I'll  come 


WITH  O.  HENRY  307 

around  and  get  you  to  stake  me  to  a  meal.  And  if 
you're  out  of  luck,  ring  this  bell." 

"There  ain't  many  like  you  gents."  The  girl's  face 
was  flushed  with  gladness.  *'Mame  and  me,  we  think 
you're  princes." 

Half  way  down  the  hall  she  turned.  "I  know  it's 
yours,  BiU.   Thanks." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

After  two  years;    a   wedding  invitation;    another   visit  to   New  York; 
delayed  hospitality;  in  O.  Henry's  home;  blackmail. 

A  hastily  scrawled  note  accompanied  a  formal  in- 
vitation. It  was  a  bid  to  the  wedding  of  William 
Sydney  Porter  and  Miss  Sallie  Coleman,  of  Asheviile, 
N.  C. 

Bill  Porter,  the  prowler,  the  midnight  investigator, 
the  devil-may-care  Bohemian  was  going  to  squeeze 
himself  into  the  tight-cut  habit  of  the  benedict.  When 
I  read  that  note  I  felt  as  though  I  had  been  asked  to 
a  funeral. 

It  was  more  than  two  years  since  I  had  seen  Bill. 
Son  of  impulse  and  whim  that  he  was,  who  could 
figure  this  new  venture  of  his? 

"Pack  up  your  togs,  colonel,  and  come  to  the  show. 
It  won't  be  complete  without  you." 

For  months  I  had  been  planning  another  trip  to 
New  York.  I  wanted  to  get  my  book  into  print. 
Porter  kept  encouraging  me.  That  was  one  glorious 
trait  in  him.  If  he  saw  a  spark  of  talent  in  another 
he  would  fan  it  with  praise  and  encouragement. 

A  thousand  suggestions  he  had  given  me.  Short 
stories  that  I  had  written,  he  had  taken  personally  to 
editors  and  tried  to  make  a  sale  for  me.  Another  trip 
to  New  York,  another  joyous  pilgrimage  into  the 
Mystic  Maze  with  the  Magician  of  Bagdad  at  my 


WITH  O.  HENRY  309 

side — if  I  had  any  talent  it  would  surely  be  kindled 
into  flame. 

The  little  note  I  held  in  my  hand  was  like  a  heavy 
wet  blanket  on  the  fire  of  that  hope.  My  wife  and  I 
went  to  the  finest  store  in  Oklahoma  and  bought 
some  kind  of  a  cut-glass  water  set.  I  sent  the  requisite 
^^Congratulations  and  Best  Wishes."  There  ends  the 
greatness  of  Bill  Porter,  I  thought.   I  was  mistaken. 

Toward  the  middle  of  December  Porter  returned 
a  rejected  manuscript  to  me. 

*'Don't  give  up,  colonel.  I'm  sure  you  could  make 
good  at  short  stories.  Come  to  New  York.  Don't 
build  any  high  hopes  on  your  book.  Just  consider 
you're  on  a  little  pleasure  trip  and  taking  it  along  as 
a  side  line.  Mighty  few  manuscripts  ever  get  to  be 
books  and  mighty  few  books  pay.  Let  me  know  in 
advance  a  day  or  two  when  you  will  arrive.  Louisa 
is  in  Grand  Rapids.  Maybe  he  will  run  over  for  a 
day  or  two." 

Less  than  a  week  later  I  was  in  New  York.  As 
soon  as  I  arrived  I  called  him  up.  I  may  have  imag- 
ined it,  but  he  did  not  seem  like  the  old  Bill  to  me. 
He  was  busy  on  a  story. 

"I'll  call  you  up  and  let  you  buy  the  drinks  as  soon 
as  the  manuscript  is  finished." 

Porter  was  an  earnest  worker.  Pleasure  never  lured 
him  from  his  desk,  perhaps  because  he  found  such  a 
joy  in  writing. 

A  week  passed.    I  did  not  hear  from  him. 

"He  doesn't  want  me  around  his  proud  Southern 
wife,"  I  thought.  "Bill  has  put  the  convict  number 
behind  him.  I've  flaunted  mine.  This  marriage  of  his 


310    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

may  help  him  to  forget.  He  probably  doesn't  want 
any  red-headed  reminder  bobbing  around." 

As  usual  I  had  to  take  back  the  hasty  judgment. 

Richard  Duflpy  came  over  for  me  one  evening. 

*'Bill  wants  to  see  you.  We're  all  going  to  dinner 
together." 

We  got  to  the  Caledonia,  where  he  still  kept  his 
study.  Porter  was  at  his  desk,  dashing  in  a  last  few 
periods.  He  looked  tired,  as  though  he  had  been  under 
a  long  strain. 

"I've  been  working  like  the  devil.  Bill.  I've  been 
feeling  very  tired.  Join  me  in  a  drink.  Will  that 
make  amends?" 

*'I  don't  know  that  any  amends  are  necessary."  I 
felt  irritated  and  showed  it.  On  the  way  to  Mouquin's 
we  scarcely  spoke.  I  felt  a  kind  of  estrangement. 
But  after  the  dinner  the  old,  sunny  familiarity  melted 
the  coldness. 

"I'd  like  you  to  meet  my  wife,  colonel." 

Somehow  I  felt  the  words  were  not  the  truth.  I 
all  but  said  I  didn't  want  to  see  her.  I  felt  that  she 
would  not  welcome  an  ex-convict. 

The  graciousness  of  Southern  hospitality  dispelled 
my  fears.  We  reached  Porter's  apartments  about 
10:30,  an  hour  and  a  half  late.  Mrs.  Porter  greeted 
us  with  great  cordiality.  She  had  been  the  first  love 
of  Porter  in  his  boyhood  days. 

To  admit  the  least,  I  was  slightly  "teed."  Perhaps 
she  did  not  observe  it.  Certainly  there  was  no  hint  of 
disapproval  in  her  manner. 

She  served  us  refreshments  and  chatted  with  a 
pleasant  ease.   I  was  relieved,  but  not  convinced. 


WITH  O.  HENRY  311 

Toward  midnight  Duffy  and  I  started  to  leave. 
Bill  took  up  his  hat. 

"Why,  you're  not  going,  too,  are  you,  Mr.  Porter?" 
the  lady  said. 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  to  explain.  Duffy  and  I 
walked  up  the  street. 

"What  the  hell  did  Bill  want  with  a  wife?  It  puts 
an  end  to  his  liberty — his  wanderings,"  I  whispered 
loudly  to  Duffy,  just  as  Porter  tapped  me  on  the 
shoulder.  He  smiled  expansively,  irrepressibly,  as  a 
boy  might  have. 

"You're  not  pleased  with  my  choice?" 

"I'm  not  to  be  pleased!"  I  fired  back. 

I  intended  walking  on  with  Duffy.  Porter  inter- 
fered. 

"Come  this  way  with  me.  We  may  not  see  much 
more  of  each  other." 

We  went  down  to  the  Hudson  and  sat  on  the  docks. 
The  lights  of  all  New  Jersey,  like  a  million  stars,  like 
a  hundred  Milky  Ways,  sparkled  in  the  water.  The 
big  steamers,  black,  powerful,  were  moored  in  the 
slips.  Tugboats  and  ferries  skimmed — ^mystic,  en- 
chanted barks — up  and  down  the  river. 

We  talked  carelessly.  Porter  started  several  times 
to  speak  seriously  and  broke  off.  Another  mood  seized 
him  and  he  looked  at  me  indulgently  and  smiled. 

"You're  dissatisfied  with  my  matrimonial  venture?" 

"It's  the  silliest  thing  you  ever  did." 

"She  is  a  most  estimable  young  lady."  Porter 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  my  resentment. 

"That  may  be,  but  what  did  you  want  with  her?" 

"I  loved  her." 


312    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

*'0h,  my  God!  That  covers  a  multitude  of  sins." 

Porter  was  a  born  troubadour.  He  had  a  liappy- 
go-lucky  heart,  for  all  that  it  was  crowded  down  with 
sadness.  I  felt  that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake  to 
take  upon  himself  obligations  that  his  nature  made 
him  unfitted  to  meet. 

"Colonel,  I  wanted  your  opinion.  IVe  wondered 
if  I  acted  honorably." 

Porter  was  the  soul  of  chivalry.  For  all  that  he  saw 
in  Hell's  Kitchen,  his  reverence  for  w^oman  remained. 
"I've  married  a  highbred  woman  and  brought  all  my 
troubles  upon  her.  Was  it  right?" 

Strange  blend  of  impulsiveness  and  honor,  the  in- 
stinctive nobility  in  Porter  urged  him  always  to 
measure  up  to  his  big  responsibilities. 

My  fears  were  ill  founded.  Bill's  marriage  did  not 
interfere  with  his  greatness.  He  was  never  one  of  the 
recklessly  debonair  w^ho  shake  off  with  an  eas}'^  con- 
science the  obligations  they  have  incurred.  Porter 
served  two  masters — Bohemianism,  Convention.  He 
served  both  well. 

Only  the  Midas  touch  or  the  purse  of  Fortunatus 
could  answer  such  demands.  It  does  not  need  the 
suggestion  of  blackmail  to  account  for  Porter's  inter- 
mittent penury.  But  I  know  that  in  one  instance  he 
was  a  victim. 

It  was  the  night  after  his  sudden  despondency.  For 
three  hours  I  sat  in  his  room  waiting  for  him  to  keep 
an  appointment.  He  came  in  whitef aced  and  haggard. 
The  jaunty  neatness  that  w^as  always  his  was  gone. 
He  looked  limp  and  careless  to  me.  He  went  over  to 
his  desk  and  sat  down.   After  a  long  silence  he  faced 


WITH  O.  HENRY  313 

me.  **I  was  serious,  colonel,  last  night.  If  I  should 
drop  off,  will  you  look  after  Margaret — be  a  sort  of 
foster-father,  as  it  were?" 

"What's  up.  Bill?  You're  as  husky  as  a  stevedore." 

*'Colonel,  you  were  right.  I  should  have  faced  it." 
And,  without  prelude,  he  launched  into  the  most  un- 
usual confidence.  Twice  Porter  deliberately  spoke  of 
his  own  affairs. 

*'I  can't  stand  it  much  longer.  She  comes  after  me 
regularly,  and  she's  the  wife  of  a  big  broker  here  at 
that.  Tonight  I  told  her  to  go  hang.  She'll  get  no 
more  from  me." 

"WiU  she  tell?" 

"Let  her." 

Not  a  former  convict  at  the  penitentiary — ^none  of 
these,  so  far  as  I  know,  ever  bothered  him — but  a 
woman  of  high  social  class,  a  woman  who  had  lived 
in  Austin  and  flirted  with  Bill  Porter  in  his  troubadour 
days. 

"We  used  to  sing  under  her  window,  once  in  a 
while.  She  came  to  me  months  ago.  She  knew  my 
whole  history.   She  came  as  a  friend. 

"She  was  in  terrible  straits,  she  said.  Her  Southern 
pride  wouldn't  let  her  ask  any  of  her  circle.  She 
wanted  a  thousand.  I  had  $150  Oilman  Hall  had  sent 
me.  I  let  her  have  it.  She  has  been  to  see  me  regularly 
ever  since.  I've  emptied  my  pockets  on  that  table  for 
her.  Now  I'm  through.   I  could  have  killed  her." 

I  knew  the  violence  of  anger  that  had  once  before 
swept  Bill  Porter  when  he  leaped  at  the  Spanish  don. 
He  sat  back  now,  spent  and  nerveless.  But  I  was 
afraid  to  leave  him  alone.    I  stayed  there  all  night. 


314    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"She'll  never  trouble  you.  Bill.  You  should  have 
called  her  bluff  the  first  time.  You've  nothing  to  lose." 

"I  have  much  to  lose,  colonel.  I  don't  look  at  things 
as  you  do." 

The  incident  was  closed.  The  woman  did  not  bother 
him  again,  but  Porter's  ups  and  downs  continued  their 
unhappy  succession. 

Not  blackmail,  but  fantastic  liberality  kept  his 
pocket  empty.  To  many  a  down-and-outer  he  must 
have  seemed  a  veritable  "scattergold." 

I  remember  one  quaint,  elfin-faced  girl.  Porter 
supported  both  her  and  her  mother. 

"They  were  very  kind  to  me  when  I  had  no  friends 
in  Pittsburgh,"  he  said  to  me  one  evening,  when  he 
brought  the  girl  to  dinner  with  us  at  Mouquin's. 
"They  came  to  New  York  and  were  stranded.  I  am 
but  meeting  an  obligation." 

I  could  see  nothing  to  this  skimpy  brown  remnant 
of  a  girl.  She  looked  like  a  wistful  little  g>^psy.  But 
Porter  loved  her,  and  she  worshiped  him  with  the 
fidelity  of  a  dog.  She  used  to  send  him  odd,  outlandish 
presents  that  were  an  abomination  to  his  cultured 
taste.  But  he  would  pretend  to  like  them. 

She  was  bright  and  happy,  but  she  had  little  to  say. 
Many  a  time  the  three  of  us  had  dinner  together  m 
New  York  on  my  first  visit.  There  was  a  certain  fairy- 
like charm  to  her — she  was  so  unobtrusive.  We 
scarcely  noticed  her  presence.  She  was  content  to 
listen  in  smiling  quiet  to  Porter's  talk. 

When  he  spoke  to  her  it  was  with  the  gentle  defer- 
ence due  a  queen. 

One  night  he  put  a  red  and  green  handkerchief  in 


WITH  O.  HENRY  315 

his  coat  pocket.  I  looked  at  him  amazed.  Rich,  har- 
monious colors  were  his  preference.  He  smiled. 
"She  sent  it  up  to  me.  I  don't  wish  to  wound  her.'* 
Prince,  then  pauper,  Prodigal  one  day — broke  the 
next.  Whim  was  his  bookkeeper.  It  piled  a  big  deficit 
on  the  prosy,  matter-of-fact  side  of  the  ledger,  but  it 
splashed  the  inner,  realer  pages  with  a  bounteous,  un- 
accountable credit.  With  a  higher  kind  of  reckoning 
it  gave  us  Bill  Porter — reckless  of  the  superficial 
values ;  unerring  in  his  devotion  to  the  better  standard 
as  he  saw  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

New  Year's  eve;  the  last  talk;  "a  missionary  after  all." 

As  one  who  stood  in  the  world's  highway  while  the 
rushing  multitude  in  the  ever  shifting  pageant  of  Life 
went  by,  each  scene  flashing  upon  the  vivid  negative 
of  his  mind  a  new  record,  each  picture  different,  un- 
expected, developing  new  lights  and  shades — like  that 
in  his  relation  to  Life  was  Bill  Porter. 

For  him  there  could  be  no  monotony,  no  "w^orld 
overrun  by  conclusions,  no  life  moving  by  rote." 
Ever  new,  ever  incalculable,  ever  absorbing — the  mov- 
ing drama  gripped  his  mind  with  its  humor  and  its 
tragedy;  it  held  his  heart  with  its  joy  and  its  sadness. 
Desolate  it  was  at  times  and  piercing  in  its  pathos — 
uninteresting  or  dull,  never.  Porter  lived  in  a  quiver- 
ing, tense  excitement,  for  he  was  one  who  watched 
and  in  a  little  understood  the  vast  hubbub  of  striving, 
half-blind  humanity. 

He  had  about  him  an  air  of  suspense,  of  throbbing 
expectancy,  as  though  he  had  just  concluded  an  ad- 
venture or  were  just  about  to  set  forth  on  one.  When- 
ever I  saw  him  I  had  an  instinctive  question  on  my 
lips_"What'sup,  Bill?" 

His  attitude  piqued  curiosity.  I  felt  it  the  day 
he  came  down  from  the  veranda  of  the  American  con- 
sulate and  began,  in  that  low-pitched  voice,  the  droll 


WITH  O.  HENRY  317 

and  solemn  dissertation  on  the  Mexican  liquor  situa- 
tion. 

It  was  with  him  through  the  dreary  unhappiness 
of  the  prison  years  and  in  the  big  struggle  to  come 
back  in  New  York.  In  every  turn  of  that  devious 
route,  even  through  the  noisome  tunnel,  he  strode 
with  brave  and  questing  tread.  Life  never  bored  him. 
From  the  first  moment  I  met  hhn  until  the  last  he 
never  lost  interest. 

"You  shall  have  a  strange  and  bewildering  experi- 
ence tonight,  my  brave  bandit,  and  I  shall  have  the 
joy  of  watching  you." 

It  was  the  last  day  of  1907.  For  hours  I  had  sat 
in  Porter's  room  in  the  Caledonia,  waiting  for  him 
to  finish  his  work.  He  was  writing  with  lightning 
speed.  Sometimes  he  would  finish  a  page  and  im- 
mediately wrinkle  it  into  a  ball  and  throw  it  on  the 
floor.  Then  he  would  write  on,  page  after  page,  with 
hardly  a  pause,  or  he  would  sit  silent  and  concentrated 
for  half  an  hour  at  a  stretch.  I  was  weary  of  waiting. 

"But  there  is  still  something  new  in  the  world,  Al," 
he  promised.  "You'll  get  a  shock  that  all  the  bump^ 
tious  thrills  of  train-robbing  never  afforded." 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  we  started  forth. 

He  led  me  through  alleys  and  by-streets  I  had 
never  seen.  We  came  into  dark,  narrow  lanes,  where 
old  five-  and  six-story  residences,  dilapidated  and 
neglected,  sent  forth  an  ancient  musty  odor.  We  went 
on  and  on  until  it  seemed  that  we  had  reached  the 
bottom  of  a  black,  unfathomable  hole  in  the  very 
center  of  the  city. 

"Listen,"  he  whispered.   And  in  a  moment  a  wild, 


318         THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

"whistling  tiimult,  that  was  as  if  the  horns  and  trum- 
pets and  all  the  mighty  bells  of  heaven  and  earth  let 
loose  a  shouting  thunder,  came  down  into  that  hole 
and  caught  it  in  a  shrieking  boom.  I  reached  out  my 
hand  and  touched  Porter's  arm.  "My  God,  Bill,  what 
is  it?" 

*' Something  new  under  the  moon,  colonel,  when- 
ever you  can't  find  it  under  the  sun.  That,  friend,  is 
but  New  York's  greeting  to  the  New  Year." 

That  hole — and  no  one  but  the  Prowling  Magician 
in  his  everlasting  search  for  the  otherwise  could  have 
found  it — was  somewhere  near  the  Hudson. 

"Do  you  feel  that  a  little  conversation  in  my  sooth- 
ing pianissimo  would  revive  you,  colonel?" 

We  went  down  to  the  docks  and  sat  there  for  an 
hour  before  we  spoke  a  word.  It  was  the  last  long 
communion  I  was  ever  to  have  with  the  gifted  friend, 
whose  memory  has  been  and  is  an  inspiration. 

Porter  seemed  suddenly  to  be  wrapped  in  gloom. 
I  was  leaving  in  a  day  or  two.  Moved  by  some  un- 
accountable  impulse — perhaps  by  the  melancholy  in 
his  manner,  I  suggested  that  he  accompany  me." 

"I'd  like  to  go  West  and  over  the  beaten  paths 
with  you.  When  I  can  make  better  provision  for 
those  dependent  on  me,  I  may." 

"Oh,  just  cut  loose  and  come.  I'll  take  you  out 
among  all  the  old  timers.  You  can  get  material 
enough  to  run  you  ten  years  on  Western  stories." 

I  was  rambling  on  vividly.  Porter's  warm,  strong 
hand  clasped  mine. 

"Colonel,"  he  interrupted,  "I  have  a  strange  idea 
that  this  will  be  our  last  meeting."    With  a  quick 


WITH  O.  HENRY  319 

change  of  mood,  he  smiled  sheepishly.  "Besides,  I 
have  not  yet  converted  New  York." 

Converted — I  laughed  at  that  word  from  Bill 
Porter.  I  remembered  his  flashing  resentment  when 
I  suggested  the  role  to  him  before  he  left  the  peni- 
tentiary. 

*'So  you  did  become  a  missionary  after  all!  What 
effect  do  you  think  "The  Four  Million"  will  have  on 
the  readers  in  this  maelstrom?  Will  it  reach  out  and 
correct  evils?" 

"That  is  too  much  to  ask.  The  blind  will  not  per- 
ceive its  message." 

"Blind — who  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Not  the  idle  poor,  colonel,  but  the  idle  rich.  They 
will  yet  live  to  have  the  bandage  torn  by  gaunt,  angry 
hands  from  their  lazy,  unseeing  eyes." 

"Where  did  you  get  that  hunch,  Bill?" 

"In  our  former  residence,  colonel." 

Mellowed  and  broadened,  he  was  this  man  who  came 
back  from  the  blighting  tunnel  to  the  welcoming 
highways.  A  different  Bill,  this  friend  of  the  shopgirl 
and  down-and-outer,  from  the  proud  recluse  who 
stopped  his  ears  to  Sallie's  needs  and  shuddered  with 
abhorrence  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  Prison 
Demon. 

"I  haven't  changed  colonel;  but  I  see  more.  Life 
seems  to  me  like  a  rich,  vast  diamond  that  is  forever 
flashing  new  facets  before  us.  I  never  tire  of  watching 
it.  When  my  own  future  seemed  so  black — that  in- 
terest kept  me  going." 

For  all  his  whims  and  his  fine,  high  pride,  for  all 
the  sadness  that  was  often  his,  this  interest  kept  him 


320    THROUGH  THE  SHADOWS 

forever  on  tiptoe.  He  was  never  a  laggard  in  the  fine 
art  of  living. 

Bill  Porter  had  a  sort  of  corner  on  the  romance  of 
life — a  monopoly  that  was  his  by  the  divine  right  of 
understanding.  It  was  a  light  that  rifled  even  the 
sordid  murk  of  the  basement  cafe  and  turned  upon 
the  hidden  worth  in  the  character  of  the  starved  and 
WTetched  dancing  girls. 

If  life  brought  an  ever  new  thrill  to  him  he  re- 
turned to  it  a  gentle  radiance  that  made  glad  the 
heart  of  many  a  Sue,  many  a  Soapy. 

There  was  in  him  a  sunny  toleration — an  eager 
youthfulness.  He  was  the  great  adventurer  with  his 
hand  on  life's  pulse-beat. 

To  have  stood  at  his  side  and  looked  through  his 
eyes  has  softened  with  mellow  humor  the  stark  and 
cruel  things — has  touched  with  disturbing  beauty  the 
finer  elements  of  existence. 

The  End. 


f^»!^..^.ri, 


JkoJECT 


II llSfii  B  liiif  "  ''"*''^'"  ""•'■ 
00032193670 


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